


Light Sensitive

by coldbluestar



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Adultery, Attempt at Humor, Bad Flirting, Comedy, Ending C: The Third Way, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, Internal Conflict, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Love Triangles, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Romance Novel Hero Michael, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 90,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbluestar/pseuds/coldbluestar
Summary: He’s a former career criminal chasing his Vinewood dreams for a shot at a legitimate living. She’s a once shining intelligence operative who needs his help to catch a slippery con artist. For these two, business mixes with pleasure in more ways than one, but they soon discover that what started out as a casual fling soon mires them in each other's lives in unexpected ways.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Original Character(s), Michael De Santa/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 181
Kudos: 38





	1. Everybody Pays

**Author's Note:**

> Not the usual premise for a GTA fic. This is going to be more character-based, heading into rom-com/romance novel territory, and more on interpersonal drama. I always loved the thought of Michael being a movie producer, so I wanted to try to flesh out him living his dream. And Michael and his family are funny people, so I wanted to really lean into their comicality. 
> 
> I had to create an OFC so I could pair Michael with someone who laughs at his jokes, appreciates the same dad music, smells nice, and doesn't hate him for a change. He deserves it.
> 
> Grand Theft Auto characters are property of Rockstar, and all original characters are my own.

“I’m going to be famous! I’m finally going to be fucking famous,” Tracey De Santa sang as she joined the rest of her family for breakfast, the airy dining area warmed by the sunlight pouring through the large, arched Mediterranean windows of their Spanish-style mansion.

“Just as long you weren’t planning doing so with your singing,” Jimmy groaned while still looking at his phone. 

Tracey swore at him, and the two siblings started comically sniping at each other. Michael chuckled at them as he set his cup of coffee down. He didn’t mind this level of noise in the house, as long as everyone was in a good mood. And there was actually a fair number of those kinds of days since he started his job as a producer at Richards Majestic about six months ago. If only he had known that gainful employment was the way to get his family and his life together, maybe he would have done it ten years ago.

His family was in an especially good mood today as it was the day of Vinewood’s most anticipated, most glamorous, and most self-absorbed night, the AA Awards. They all had tickets to the ceremony and its biggest after-party by virtue of Michael’s connection to the movie studio. Once Michael told them they were going, it was all they could talk about for months, it seemed. They almost started treating him more nicely too. Almost.

“Last day of these stupid kale smoothies,” Amanda sighed after she forced herself to swallow the thick grassy liquid from her glass. “And then all the champagne I can drink tonight. I can’t wait!”

“I don’t know why you had to go through all that. You look the same...I mean, great as always,” Michael said.

“Because you just bought me the most gorgeous Sebastian Dix gown, my darling husband, and I need to look like a waif model from an Anna Rex ad so that I look good in it.”

“I could have just hooked you up with meth from Trevor, and maybe I would’ve also gotten a little action on the side,” Michael muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Amanda snapped.

“Nothing,” Michael said quickly, regretfully.

“What did I tell you about those little sarcastic remarks?”

“Sorry. Hard habit to break. I’ll be better.”

Amanda simply smiled, running her hand through her blonde hair. She had been a brunette in her lily-white Midwest small town to stand out and get more clients. She reverted to her natural hair colour once she became a film producer’s wife to fit in with the Vinewood ladies’ brunch club. “There were these earrings that I saw at Vangelico that would match that dress. I think I still have time to make a quick run before we have to get on the red carpet tonight. While I’m there, I might as well get a pair for Tracey too.”

Michael sighed in resignation. “Of course, my darling.”

Jimmy’s pale face suddenly turned even paler as he stared at his phone, if that were at all possible. “Oh, shit. Dad. _Dad._ ”

His son’s shock was immediately palpable, even if Michael didn’t know the cause of it yet. “What’s the matter?”

“This Weazel News alert: ‘Richards Majestic producer implicated in murder of Vinewood manager,’” Jimmy read out loud. “‘Actor Colt Mackay has come out with an unsubstantiated rumour that Richards Majestic producer Michael De Santa is responsible for the murder of Vinewood manager Rocco Pelosi and Pelosi’s bodyguard. Pelosi was the agent to so-called stars like Milton McIlroy….’ Blah, blah, blah…. ‘…Richards Majestic is already suffering blows to its reputation since it has been revealed recently that studio founder David Richards and his son, director Solomon, willfully covered up knowledge of the murders of actress Leonora Johnson and actor Isaac Alberts for four decades. A spokesperson for the studio said they will act swiftly in this matter, without due process.’”

Amanda turned to face her husband. “Is it true? Tell me it isn’t true!” With that, denial quickly turned into anger. “You’ve always been a murdering piece of shit! Of course it’s true! You can’t even have a legitimate job without killing someone!”

“It’s not true,” Michael lied uselessly, more out of habit than actually convincing his wife.

Tracey, to her credit, picked up on the article’s implication. “Are you going to lose your job, Dad?” 

“Why would Dad lose his job over this?” Jimmy asked. “It’s just some actor saying bullshit. ‘Unsubstantiated rumour,’ it says right here.”

“Cancel culture,” Michael said through tight lips. He had been thinking exactly what Tracey had concluded. Not all hope was lost in the bloodline.

Amanda’s eyes widened in fear. “They can’t do it right away, can they? I mean…it’s the Awards tonight.”

“Who the fuck is Colt Mackay?” Michael mumbled out loud. The name was vaguely familiar, although Michael didn’t have an instant recollection of all the actors in all the shows and movies he had watched.

“Who the fuck cares?” Amanda exclaimed over Tracey and Jimmy loudly arguing about each other’s intelligence. “I need to know that we’re still going on the red carpet tonight! I told everyone back home to watch. All my friends at the country club! Fabien!”

The house suddenly fell silent when a phone started ringing, Michael’s. All eyes turned to him as he answered it.

“De Santa,” he said hoarsely. “…Uh-huh. …Uh-huh. …Okay. …Bye.”

Michael looked around to see his family staring after him. He might as well say it.

“Studio’s terminating my contract. We’ve been uninvited to the AA Awards tonight. Our tickets have been cancelled. They want to distance themselves from me as soon as possible.”

Tracey let out an ear-shattering wail, and Michael had to dodge when she threw a jar of strawberry jam straight at his face. The jar shattered into the wall behind him and left a large red splotch in its wake. There was that famous Townley throwing arm. Her bawling was interrupted with cries of “I hate you! You’re the fucking worst!”

Amanda stared at him, her blue eyes filled with rage. “It was the one good thing you’d actually done for us in your life. And now it’s gone.”

“Can’t you do anything about it? Talk to them or something? Or get us more tickets?” Jimmy pleaded. “I need this for my business!”

“Are you all fucking serious? All you care about right now is going to this awards ceremony? Instead of me possibly getting charged with murder?” Michael exclaimed.

“YES!” three voices chorused at him.

“I’d been hyping this up on my Thirstagram for weeks! You’re such a disappointment! You always have been!” Tracey spat angrily through her tears.

“Hey!” Michael shouted. “Without me, none of you would have even come this close to sniffing Alexandra Saint-Jacques’s augmented ass in the first place. How about one of you do something on your own for once instead of riding my coattails all the time, huh? The only reason I keep disappointing all of you is because I’m the only fucking one doing something with a purpose!”

“Oh, the nerve of the bank robber to lecture us on ‘purpose.’” Amanda rolled her eyes.

“I think this Colt Mackay guy is trying to make the headlines because he just converted to the Epsilon Program. Also says here in the article,” Jimmy said.

The colour drained from Michael’s face as he turned to face his son. “What did you say?”

“Epsilon. That cult across the street. The ones wearing those weird baby blue outfits,” Jimmy said.

Amanda glared at Michael. “Like the one in your closet?”

“That cocksucker actually did it,” Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. It may not have been Cris Formage’s name in the article, but even a kindergartener could connect the dots. Of all the crimes he had committed, he never expected that the murder of a lowly Liberty City gangster was going to be the one to bite him back.

“Dad? Did you join Epsilon and pissed them off because you left? Just like Luisa Rincon and Jimmy Boston’s ex-wife Colette Fairchild?” Tracey was the expert in Vinewood celebrity news, especially scandals. “Epsilon digs up nasty dirt on those who go against them and airs it out in the public to ruin their reputation. Only with you, they must have found all the bodies you buried.”

“I thought Jimmy Boston was gay,” Amanda said.

“Sure is. I met him,” Michael said, grateful for the brief tangent.

“Who’s Jimmy Boston?” Jimmy asked.

“Old has-been actor. Biggest movie star of the 80s,” Tracey answered, proud of her status as subject matter expert. “The 80s didn’t have much of a choice.”

“You met Jimmy Boston?” Amanda sounded impressed for a moment, and then she snapped out of it. “Michael…what did you do in Epsilon?”

He hesitated before saying anything, but he realized he was actually proud of what he had done. “A few months ago, that time you all moved out, I joined and then took them for two mill…maybe thinned out their security team and helicopter fleet while I was at it. Single-handedly.”

“That’s so cool, Dad!” Jimmy exclaimed, which earned him a slap on the head from his mother.

“What the hell?!” Amanda looked at him in horror. “We didn’t need the money at that point!”

Michael shrugged. “I was bored.”

“Oh my god. What is _wrong_ with you?!” Amanda exclaimed. “I swear, you’re a psychopathic freak that gets off on chaos!”

“What do you know about what gets me off? You lost your expertise on that subject a long time ago,” Michael spat.

“Dad…does Epsilon know everything about you? I mean, the you you. Everything that you’ve done?” Tracey almost looked concerned, but it was more of her desperation to quickly change the subject.

Michael was silent for a few seconds to ponder. There was still the issue of the best-selling book his expired therapist had written about him, and he couldn’t quite believe that no one had openly linked him to it yet. Perhaps readers dismissed it as a fairytale, or was that how invisible he was in Los Santos? He figured it was a combination of both. “If they really knew the truth about me, it would be all out in the open…. This sounds like conjecture by them since Pelosi’s death coincided with me starting out at Richards. That’s all Cris-Without-an-H was able to dig up on me, but it’s enough to do its damage. I was under orders by Solomon, by the way.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Amanda yelled. “God, you’re so far up that old fossil’s ass; I can smell his raisin bran-speckled shit on you.”

Michael checked the time on his watch. “I have to go. Studio wants me in their offices to sign the termination papers. I’ll talk to Solomon.”

Amanda took a deep breath and looked at her children. “Kids, I’ll be checking into a penthouse suite tonight and will be staying there indefinitely. You’re welcome to join me. And since we’d already got salon appointments, we might as well crash some viewing parties around town. Trace, it’s just too bad your father can’t introduce you to agents and producers anymore.”

“It’s for the best. That means they won’t be taking advantage of you,” Michael huffed as he walked off before he could hear any more protests.

* * *

“It’s just bad timing, Michael. We can’t afford to have another corpse out in the open,” Solomon said.

“So when they’re _your_ corpses, they’re swept under the rug. But when people find the ones I did under your orders, you’re putting neon lights on my head saying ‘I did it,’” Michael said dryly. “No one’s got any proof I did it. It’s just some cock-sucking attention whore yapping.”

“It honestly doesn’t matter whether you did it or not. It’s the court of public opinion. You know how it is. I have to deflect the bad publicity away from me. I got a lot to lose. It’s my name on the gates. You only got started a few months ago. You don’t have anything to lose.”

The old man was smart enough not to put himself in the same room as Michael, who would have gone right at his throat at that instant. Michael had to negotiate a phone call through the Richards Majestic lawyer, who was watching over his shoulder while Solomon, who finally consented to get it over with, was on speakerphone in the meeting room.

“You know I only did what you asked,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “You hired me because you knew what I can do.”

“I know, Michael. If only you knew all the shady things that go on in Vinewood. It’s a dark, desperate little town. Everyone has their secrets here. You just made the mistake of pissing off someone who had dirt on you.”

“If everyone has their secrets in Vinewood, why am I the one who’s gotta take the fall?”

“This bit on you and Pelosi is making the daytime news rounds, and the media is bringing up Leonora Johnson again. Everyone had already forgotten all about it, but your indiscretion is reminding them of it, right on the day of the AA Awards. People in Vinewood don’t care all right, but you know who does? The movie-goers. Investors. Those people we scam for their money by releasing formulaic dreck with pretty, talentless actors and barely any semblance of a plot. Public opinion of the studio dropped when Peter Dreyfuss’s confession letter addressed to my father came out. RIM stock fell. We can’t have Richards Majestic dragged through the mud again like this. The studio can’t afford any more blowback in its precarious state. It’s much easier to cut you loose to pretend like we’re doing something about this so the stock price doesn’t hit new lows. We really need the money and can’t afford any more losses.”

“What about my family? The awards tonight? Can’t you do anything about that? Pulling us at the last minute is unnecessarily hasty. Quite the overreaction.”

“I can’t. It was the board’s unanimous decision to let you go right away. You know how they’re so coveted. Those tickets have long been resold. Got a lot of money for them. You know we really like money.”

Michael snorted. “More than you actually like making good movies these days, it seems.”

“Lay low for a few years. Take a bit of a vacation, you know? You may still have a shot in Vinewood. Just not at a big studio.”

“Just not at yours.”

“Exactly.”

Michael sighed. “Well, it was a real pleasure working with you, Solomon,” he said in a syrupy tone, although the lawyer in the room with him could see the bitterness on his face.

“Likewise, Michael. You were excellent at your job, which means I hope I never see you again,” Solomon said before he hung up.

The lawyer made a hasty exit as soon as Michael gave his signatures, not wanting to take any chances being alone in a room with him, and hoping security would do its job if need be. He didn’t bother running the papers through his own lawyer as soon as he saw he was getting a generous severance payment. Somehow though, it sat uncomfortably with him.

“It’s not about the money,” he said softly to himself while looking around the empty table. The burning halogen bulbs cast white spots on the black leather chairs like ghostly, incorporeal heads. His own sole voice resonated in the small, cold, hollow room. “It never ever was.”


	2. Black Velvet

Alcohol was like a magical gateway, Michael liked to believe, that took him to a place that was neither here nor there, a personal purgatory. He had quit chain smoking after the past summer’s events, but drinking was the one vice he still allowed himself regularly. 

After driving up to North Chumash for a brief respite to watch the ocean that he loved, he made his way that evening to the lobby bar at the Richman Hotel. It was a favourite of the Vinewood elite for its unwritten rule that each table should mind its own business. Even after today’s events, he knew he would be left alone to wallow. To his relief, there were no television screens that were showing the awards to remind him of his failure to his family.

Decades of constant drinking made him develop a higher than average tolerance to alcohol, so he had to knock back a few heavy swigs of bourbon before he felt the numbing cocoon around his head—just enough so that it was a pleasant buzz that made the room dance, and not too much that it sapped his presence of mind. 

“The lady over there would like to buy you a drink.”

Michael tried to peer over his right shoulder, towards the direction the bartender had indicated. Through the dimly lit lobby, there was clearly only one female figure, wearing a black velvet backless cami dress, seated at the bar, about three yards away from him. She greeted him with a small smile when she noticed him looking. Luckily for him, she was undeniably beautiful, even from afar.

“Uh. Yeah, sure,” Michael mumbled, trying to hide his surprise. A free drink is a free drink. The distraction of companionship would help, although the mystery of her agenda intrigued him to take up the offer.

The bartender refilled Michael’s glass with bourbon, and he held it up towards the woman and mouthed a thank you before he took a sip. She took it as her cue to start her approach.

Her make-up was carefully applied, with jet-black cat eyes that complemented the firetruck crimson of her lips. Her medium-length black hair, styled in large waves, contrasted with her jade green eyes. Her look was reminiscent of the 50s glam of the actresses in the classic movies he loved, but she looked to be in her mid-twenties. While Michael speculated for a split-second that she could be an escort, escorts simply did not buy overpriced liquor at ritzy hotel bars for their prospects.

She called the bartender and requested for two glasses of water and a cognac Sazerac.

“Thanks again for the drink, gorgeous,” Michael said now that she was within earshot, opting to play it cool for now.

“You sure look like you need it,” she said. Her voice was throaty, but she spoke with a pleasant lilt and a deliberate tempo.

He chuckled. “That bad, huh? You seen the news today?” His story was a curious footnote for today’s news cycle, and even if it was eclipsed by the AA Awards, it was sensational tabloid fodder nonetheless.

She shook her head. “Haven’t had the chance. I just flew in from Alderney City. Came here straight from the airport to check into my room. I’m beat, but not beat enough to have a drink here. It’s a beautiful lobby. Why, did anything interesting happen today?”

That gave Michael the hope that she didn’t know who he was and what just happened to him today. Also, she wasn’t an escort, all right. “No reason. Just going through the small talk checklist.” He held out his hand. “I’m Mikey.”

She took his hand. “Bianca. Nice meeting you, Mikey.”

“So, Bianca, what brings you to Los Santos?”

“There’s a yoga conference here this week. It isn’t starting until two days from now, but I figured I’d come in early so I could tour the city.”

That certainly explained her athletic-looking body, with her broad shoulders and cut, toned arms—not unlike his wife when they first met. Needless to say, Bianca was certainly his physical type. “Oh, yeah? You seeing any friends here?”

She took a sip of her cocktail. “Yeah, maybe. I’m not sure. Still working out their schedules. It’s my fault. I decided to go to this convention at the last minute, so I didn’t give them any prior notice. I’ll probably go it alone if they can’t make it.”

“I could offer to tour you…well, that is, if you want me to.”

She laughed. Her eyes darted to his left hand that was resting on the bar counter, and he followed her gaze as it fell on the silver wedding band on his ring finger. “Well, I don’t want to impose. Won’t you be busy? What do you do for a living?”

He pulled away from the bar and clasped his hands together, subconsciously concealing the ring. “I’m a producer…movie producer. Well, I was. Just lost my job today. So I got a lot of free time on my hands now.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah…I’m telling you, you should never meet your heroes.” He glanced around the lobby and then lowered his voice. “You heard of Solomon Richards?”

“Sure, that old movie producer.”

Michael continued speaking in a low voice, just enough for her to hear. “Yeah, I was a huge fan of his old movies, so I was absolutely over the moon when I got the chance to work with him. It was really nice at the start. I did everything I could to suck up to the guy, but after the honeymoon phase, I started to see his flaws. The man lives too much on his past glories and fails to see changing trends with audiences. You know…the times have changed, tastes have changed…. I tried to keep telling him...I hoped he’d listen to an outside perspective. I know I’m not the only one at the studio who’s been telling him, but since it’s his name on the studio, he gets the final say. He’s still too stuck in his stubborn old ways. …Besides, I also got sick of his passive-aggressive insults. As if I didn’t get that enough outside of work.”

“Have you ever thought about going independent? Starting your own production company?”

He paused. “It crossed my mind, once or twice, but I never gave it any serious thought. I wouldn’t be ready for that for another ten years. I’m still fish food in Vinewood circles.”

“It sounds like you have your own ideas, and you couldn’t get them done because you had to answer to Solomon Richards and the studio. Won’t it be better to get to be your own boss? Start up your own company, have your own name up on the studio lot. Set your own goals, your own rules.” She held up her hands dismissively and chuckled. “I’m no expert in the movie biz, but that’s just what I think.”

Michael was shaking his head while chuckling. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.” He took a sip of his drink. “You really are beautiful, Bianca. Got a lucky guy—or girl—back home?”

She giggled while shaking her head. He figured it was both her dismissal of his compliment and the answer to his question. “I tried the whole dating thing. I hated every second of it. Hated all the guessing and facades. That’s why I prefer married men. Ironically, they’re more honest. They’re more direct with what they want.” She winked at him. “Maybe I will take you up on your offer to tour Los Santos, Mikey. If the wife wouldn’t mind, that is.” She gestured towards his left hand.

He rolled his eyes. “She’ll only care about my existence when the checks start to bounce.”

“Complicated marriage?”

“You can say that.”

“What’s so complicated about your marriage, Mikey?”

Michael heaved a loud sigh as his life flashed before him in his head. “Oh, man. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Try me. I have all night. When I meet married men who are sitting alone at a bar, most of them just want someone to listen to them.”

Michael buried his face in his hands and took a few moments to collect his thoughts before he finally spoke in selected truisms: “Same problem as every other married couple—married too young, married because I knocked her up. There were no major issues in our marriage when I was away from home for work, you know? But when I’d retired and we were finally forced to spend time together, we realized we didn’t have much in common, except maybe growing resentment for one another. We tried to make it work not so long ago, even did some therapy together. I thought we were finally going to have a breakthrough. The pleasantries didn’t last long. She keeps bringing up my past sins, and yeah, I had an awful lot of them, you know? I’m willing to take the blame for my part. But she ain’t been a saint herself, so I can’t stand how she insists everything is my fault…. She never admits she’s part of the problem. And you know…she isn’t even willing to try in the most obvious way. She hasn’t slept with me in a very long time, but I know she’s been banging every one else with a dick.” He intently watched the golden drops of bourbon swirling in his glass. “It’s a vicious cycle we can’t get out of.”

“Why do you think she’s lost interest in you?”

He sighed. “Well, for starters, she doesn’t approve of my lifestyle or my friends. I figure it’s a way of hers to exert some control or dominance over me.”

“Have you ever asked her why?”

Michael shrugged. The truth was, he never actually did. Maybe he didn’t because he was afraid of the truth, that he was no longer desirable. He just said, “The only reason she won’t leave me is my money.”

“Have you ever thought about leaving her?”

He shook his head. “This is married life, isn’t it? My parents stuck it out, no matter how miserable they were. She wants to stick it out, and that’s enough for me.”

She smiled wanly. “In all my life, I have yet to hear about anyone’s happy marriage. I’ve never heard any ringing endorsements for it. It doesn’t sound like anything I’d ever want to do. That’s why I only ever play; I never stay.”

“You ain’t afraid of dying alone? Having no one show up at your funeral?”

She shot him a bemused look, as it was an oddly specific thing to say. “We’re all going to die alone. They don’t make twin-size coffins, do they?”

He smirked. “For someone so young, you have the cynicism of a Gen X-er whose idea of a punchline is a Sartre quote.”

She laughed heartily. “I mean…if it works for other people and it makes them happy, good for them. I just don’t think it’s for me. And I also don’t think that people who are miserable in it should have to put up with it, that’s all. I just can’t imagine being beholden to anyone. I like my independence. I like being able to decide to go to Los Santos for a yoga conference on a whim, without having to worry about anyone else’s feelings or opinions. I like my freedom. I like being in my own bed.” She smiled slowly. “Most nights.” She finished the rest of her drink and then drank her water. “You got any plans for the rest of the night, Mikey? Got any parties in Vinewood you have to head to?”

He chuckled. “Sure, if you count my pity party, which I got going every night. Just for tonight, I got special guests, they’re called failure and humiliation.”

She asked for her tab to be charged to her room, giving her name as Bianca Ravenna. Michael charged his on his credit card. “You’re going to be fine, Mikey. You’re special. I’m calling it a night here, but maybe you’d like to come up with me to my room?”

“You gonna keep affronting my life choices?” he teased in a light tone.

“Only if you want me to continue.”

He was about to retort that he got that enough from his so-called best friend, but he held his tongue. 

He wasn’t answering immediately, so she reached out and took his hand, interlacing her fingers in his. The back of her other hand lightly stroked the side of his jaw while she locked her green eyes into his. That was when Michael noticed that she was wearing contact lenses—her real eye colour had to be brown or black. 

“Come on, handsome,” she purred, “you wanna show me the best of what Los Santos has to offer? We can start tonight.”

“All right then,” he said, as they both got up from the bar, and she led the way to the elevator hall. 

He reached behind her and caressed the small of her back. Normally, she would squirm at being tickled, but the lightness and precision of his touch triggered a warm shudder low in her belly. Her bottom lip trembled as she looked up at him in a daze, although her breaths hitched in pleasure.

He continued lightly tickling the flesh on top of her sacrum, with his knuckles occasionally running up her exposed back, as they entered the elevator. He figured to go with conservative touching first, if only to warm her up and gauge her reaction. She wasn’t exhibiting resistance or repulsion at all—he’d learned enough of those reactions from his own wife, but he’d also been with enough women to know when they weren’t fully into it. He selected the eighth floor, remembering it from when she’d charged her drinks to her room. Her body then yielded to his touch, and he pulled her closer into him, wrapping his arms around her waist, with her head resting on his shoulder.

They alighted from the elevator at her floor. She turned to him and wrapped her arms around his back. He reciprocated with a tight embrace, pressing her head to his chest. In this proximity, she deeply inhaled his cologne, a heady mix of amber, leather, grapefruit, and ginger deliciously complementing his body’s chemistry. She stood still like this for a good while, while his strong hands held her bare back, relishing the smoothness of her skin. He didn’t mind this place either.

Any amount of hesitation she previously had was now gone, he decided. He held her chin in his thumb and index finger and carefully pushed her head away. His gaze fell upon her mouth, which opened and trembled slightly as she anticipated what he was about to do. He seized her full apple-red lips in a slow and gentle kiss, her mouth tasting of the sweet aniseed and bitter gentian of her drink.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he whispered.

She nodded and kissed him back deeply, as if she had finally given in to her desires. Her hands ran across his back and then across the length of his arms. Emboldened, his lips trailed down, planting kisses on her neck, and then onto the fleshy hollow just above that alluring bare collarbone that was tantalizing him all night. He heard her softly moan as his hot breath prickled her skin. She gently pushed him away by the shoulders, gave him one more kiss on the cheek, and then took his hand, leading him down the hall to where her room was.

She unlocked the door with the key card and led him into the pitch black room. She retraced her steps and placed the key card in the light switch slot, illuminating the room, and closed the door behind her.

In the harsh fluorescent light, she raised her open palms to either side of her head and then lowered to clasp them over her heart as a sign of sincere intent. “Michael De Santa,” she began.

Michael sighed. Here’s the fucking catch. It was only fitting that this night would turn out like this after the day he had had. Karma sure had its way of shitting on him. He should have trusted his initial instinct that there was something amiss about the whole encounter; but instead, he let his ego override his gut. However, he did not expect the words that soon followed out of her mouth.

“I’m from the IAA. I’m Agent Ari Luna. We want you to work with us.”


	3. Unfinished Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the comments I'd deleted when I deleted chapters 3-5. :( I rewrote 70% of this, if anyone read the previous version, while from this point on, it'll be brand new.

Michael looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, and finally he said slowly, “I’m just a movie producer, Agent Luna. An _associate_ producer. Bottom of the Vinewood food chain. Like I said, I lost my job today. You’re talking to the wrong man if the IAA wants a patsy in Vinewood. I got no clout. I’m a nobody.”

“Minor setback. What if I told you I can get you your Vinewood career back? And make sure the D.A never presses charges against you…get you immunity?”

“I’ll tell you you’re full of shit. Besides, I don’t ever get involved in that kind of work,” he said, “or your people. I told you. I’m just a movie producer.”

Ari shook her head. “You’re lying. You’re not just any other movie producer, Mr. De Santa. You’ve crossed paths with the IAA before.”

“You’re gravely mistaken. Never in my life have I dealt with the IAA.”

Ari raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’re familiar with our offices, seeing as you and your posse killed several of our agents while extracting a person of interest out of our custody. We got everything on camera. Trust me, the sight of you in a full-body neoprene suit is hard to forget.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, ma’am. Now, if I’m not going to get laid, we’re done here. I ain’t one to rape or hit a lady. Please get out of my way so I can leave.”

“I got muscle behind that door who are prepared to knock your pretty teeth out if you step out that door this very moment. Not to mention my seniors who want to ream your ass for all the shit you and your FIB buddies pulled against us.”

“You’re bluffing. You ain’t got shit. I’m walking out.” He walked past her and reached out for the doorknob.

She turned around to face his back. “You leave right now, and then what? After my agents have their way with you and decorate the walls with your blood. Without our help, your Vinewood career is over. You’re going back to retirement while you feel sorry and miserable in your big old empty mansion? Without the pretence of a glamorous job in Vinewood, your wife and your kids are done sucking up to you. You ain’t got shit.”

He whirled around to face her, his eyes blazing with anger as he raised a pointed index finger at her. “How fucking dare you,” he hissed as walked towards her, and she retreated backwards into the room, hands cautiously raised in defence. “Even if I was who you think I was, missy, I ain’t going to be a fucking mercenary for hire for the fucking government. If you really are an IAA agent, then you’re a shitty one, because I was on to you from the get-go…. You’re doing a bang-up job of recruiting.” He emphasized the word for sarcasm. “This is what my honest tax dollars pay for? Good night, Agent. Go harass and manipulate some other drunk loser.” He turned on his heel and started towards the door again.

She desperately said the first thing that was on her mind, before trying to consider its consequences. “I’m not as good a liar as you are, so apart from my name and my job, everything else I told you at the bar was true…. You’re not any other Vinewood producer or drunk loser. That’s not who you are or all that you’re capable of. I meant it when I said when I said you were special. …I need someone like you right now.”

It was enough to make him stop in his tracks. She went on, “Now, I’m not interested in hearing you confess to anything you did in the past. I’m not going to blackmail you like the FIB did. We can have a simple, straightforward discussion like grown adults here. Just…hear me out.”

Michael turned back towards the room, studying the room as he made his way back inside. Slowly, he sat down on the side of the bed and shrugged off his jacket. 

She looked at him with a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”

“You did invite me up here to spend the night, right?” Taking his time while looking straight into her eyes, he unbuttoned and took off his dress shirt, revealing a white tank top. He then unbuckled his belt and then looked at her. “I’d like to a be a bit more comfortable while you pitch to me.” With that, he swung his legs onto the bed, pushing himself to sit up against the pillows. He folded his hands on his stomach. “Go on, Agent.”

Ari rubbed her temple with her thumb and middle finger, trying to think of her next move. He made a play to unnerve her, and it worked. What she found most disturbing, however, was how she kept being drawn to look at his thick, sinewy, corded arms and how the memory of his embrace sent shivers up her spine. “Is this also how you conduct yourself in your Vinewood pitches?”

He smiled slyly. “Depends what you do next. I ain’t asking you to do anything specific.”

She swooped down, picked up her clutch bag that was on the floor, pulled out her ID, and threw it to him. He immediately caught it between his hands and studied it, glancing between the picture and her a few times, mentally removing the wig, make-up, and contact lenses that were partially disguising her. He liked her better in the picture, a naturally pretty girl whose ethnicity he couldn’t place—most likely a wild, faraway mix he could never guess. She had fine medium-length brown hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, and lush pink lips—not that she was any bad in her current retro-chic get-up at all. _Ariadne Luna_ , her name read, and beneath it, her title with the IAA, _Operations Officer_.

“Ariadne.” Michael deliberately let each syllable roll off his tongue. He noticed her wince slightly. Even her voice at the bar had been an act, he had since concluded—her natural speaking manner had a sharper tone and faster cadence.

“You can call your friend Lester Crest, and he can vouch for me and the agency,” she said. “The IAA’s been working with him on a few jobs. He denied ever working with you, of course, so this is something the two of you can discuss between yourselves.”

He flicked the ID card back towards her. “Well, Agent, if you’re not going to fuck me, you might as well keep flattering me.”

“I never said that was off the table,” she said in an even tone.

He glanced at her, hand on her hip, standing at the edge of the bed. Her hooded gaze and jutted-out chest suggested that he could take her at her word. 

In any other circumstance, he would have been thrilled at the offer. He would hungrily pull her by the arm towards him, hike up the hem of that little black dress, and explore every inch of her body with his hands, mouth, and— _well_.

He noticed her tremble slightly, as if she’d also seen the images that flashed through his mind. But where he had previously been preoccupied by lust; instead, he felt overwhelmed with irritation, taking it as an affront to his ego, when it turned out that she wasn’t who she first said she was.

Michael rolled his eyes. “Flattery’s fine for now.”

Ari gave a soft chuckle, not backing down from his display of impertinence. “I worked on your file when the IAA tagged you as a potential asset months ago, so I feel like I know you inside and out. I can’t help but feel you just made some bad choices… _a lot_ of bad choices. But the thing is, you excel in anything you set your mind on. It does look like you got your shit together since you made headway in Vinewood, and you’re doing something you finally love. I would hate to see that squandered. I believe everybody deserves a second chance.”

Michael stared at her, stunned—it was as if she’d entered his mind and read his best-kept secret. He’d always thought of himself as the hero of his own story, but no one else in the world—not his wife, not his best friend, not his therapist, not his parents—ever saw it that way. And suddenly, there was this young pretty thing in front of him in his corner. Could she just be saying it because she wanted something from him? For the moment, that didn’t matter. In all his forty-six years on earth, for the first time, it felt like there was someone firmly in his corner.

“I don’t need a job offer from the IAA to stay afloat. I got money coming out of the wazoo,” he said.

Her lips pursed. “Maybe you don’t, not for money, but without my help, it’s going to take you a while to get your footing back in Vinewood, if you ever do. You know how it is. This town is all about reputations and connections. Without Solomon Richards holding your hand anymore, you have none of either.”

Michael hated to admit it, but she was right. What dawned upon him these past few months, and which was resoundingly validated by the outburst at the breakfast table this morning, was that his Vinewood job seemed to quell his own family’s dysfunctional relationship. It didn’t matter that they were probably using his status as a producer, just like they would use him for his money…it just mattered that they acted less like assholes, and that they were at home.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, sighing. “That was the only time my wife ever really liked me, and I would like that back.”

Ari could have embellished her spiel with a “ _Do it for your wife_ ,” to seal the deal, but her mouth went dry. It went unsaid.

“Even if I sign on—and I’m not saying I’m going to—the problem is that I ain’t got a job, in case you forgot.”

“The IAA funds a production studio for purposes like these. It’s more than a front; it’s a legitimate movie studio. The only one that’ll hire you right now. It’ll let you get your reputation back together in the meantime, but you’ll have to work on at least one mission with us. One that requires a working Vinewood producer.”

Maybe if his family found out he was back in Vinewood and able to rub elbows with the stars again, they would come back sooner than later, Michael thought to himself.

“Now what kind of IAA operation requires a movie producer?” he asked. 

“There’s a con artist who’s going around impersonating power players in Vinewood—we’ll wait for her, them, whoever they are, to contact you.”

“That’s it? You just want me to get in touch with some con artist? You said you know my file, right? You know the last job I did before Richards.” Ironically, it was the kind of job that made his reputation better the less anyone actually knew he was responsible for it. “Ain’t I a little too… _overqualified_ for this?”

She crossed her arms across her chest and smirked. “Weren’t you a little too overqualified to fly down to a shoot to shut down production for a day while your lead actors were holed up in a hotel room after shooting up coke up their rectums because they burned right through their nostrils? So you weren’t overqualified to wade through the piles of feces and used condoms on the floor to drag them out of bed? That’s what really makes you happy, eh?”

“Hey,” he exclaimed, “that was just the one time.” Now, he was almost impressed by the IAA’s surveillance. That was singularly the worst day of his Vinewood career, one that legitimately made him question the work he was doing at Richards Majestic, babysitting a bunch of narcissistic spoiled brats who made Tracey and Jimmy look like angels in comparison.

“So, think about my offer for a couple of days. You want a chance to one-up a criminal mastermind with your guile? Or are you going to keep counting shit-stained condoms for the rest of your Vinewood career?” Ari pulled out a business card from her purse, walked over to the side of the bed where he sat, and slapped the card to his chest. She then walked over to the closet to retrieve her coat.

“Leaving already, Agent?” Michael asked. “Where you headed? Got a date?”

Ari smiled at him slyly. “As a matter of fact—I do.”

He was married and he’d already rebuffed her not long ago, so why did that feel like a slap in the face? “Whoa, you got someone else lined up after me?” he said playfully.

She shrugged. “Hey, you had your chance to be in your own sexy spy thriller. You have the room for the night though. Courtesy of the Agency.”

“You going to count the condoms here too when I’m done?” he said wryly.

She laughed. “Matter of fact, I will. Good night, Mikey.”

Michael was already partly undressed, in a hotel room, and just about blue balled. Any rational man who’d run through this gauntlet of a day he’d had would be forgiven for calling an escort service, the number of which he’d already had in his phone. Instead, he called the one person he could unconditionally trust, even in the early hours of the morning.

“Back in the fray, are we?” Lester Crest murmured.

“Hey, I didn’t say nothing yet,” Michael said.

“Hmm.” Lester simply said. “Needless to say, I know how your mind works. You want the file on the girl? I figured you would.”

“Yeah, if only to level the playing field. She knows every single thing about me.” _And she doesn’t hate me, like everyone else does. Or even me, for that matter._ “I might as well ask her how my next colonoscopy is gonna turn out.”

“You know, you are due for—”

“Oh, shut up. …Anyway, you got into her text messages yet? You know who she’s on her way to meet now?”

“Her latest texts are to a number owned by someone named Dominic Proulx. An investment banker, from his Life Invader. They do have a message history of several years. I don’t think they’ll be discussing options trading at two in the morning.”

She hadn’t been kidding about the date—a boyfriend?—which irritated Michael because her non-answer at the bar gave him the implication that she was single. But again, that shouldn’t be any of his concern, right? She didn’t owe him a straight answer. An investment banker. Good with money and educated. Two things he was not. So that was her type. So much for mixing business and pleasure.

Michael sighed. “I can’t believe I’m considering getting back in bed with the government. What am I even doing with my life?” 

“Water seeks its own level, Michael.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means…you’re you.”

“Good fucking night, Lest.”

He tried to take advantage of the lush hotel bed to get some sleep after such a taxing day, but his mind was buzzing with how his weary soul felt reinvigorated by what Agent Luna had said to him. It was downright frightening yet exciting how she’d spoken some of his secret innermost thoughts out loud. How did she do it? Was she a trained profiler and spy, an actually competent federal agent? Or did she actually share a connection with him?

Before he shut his eyes for good, he gave his phone one last glance, to see if anyone in his family was checking on his whereabouts while they were out about town trying to crash some post-award parties, possibly. There was nothing.

* * *

It was Nic’s one free night in Los Santos before he had to fly to San Fierro for a lunch meeting, and then Ari suddenly had this golden opportunity to swoop in to recruit Michael De Santa after losing his cushy Vinewood job. She could have easily taken a rain check with Nic, for the next time they were in the same city. But, she figured, she could go all out with her hair, make-up, and wardrobe for the one night and kill two birds with one stone. It was a decision of efficiency and economy; it made sense in her mind. She liked things logical and sensible.

Nic wasn’t one of those married men she’d told Michael about, but he was the next best thing. Convenience and coincidence were really why they kept hooking up with one another, as they both travelled to Los Santos and Liberty City frequently for work. That was as close to a relationship with someone that she was willing to take.

“You got rubbers this time?” Ari asked when Nic met her at the door of the West Vinewood condo he kept. She’d almost forgotten how damn attractive he was, with his light blue eyes gorgeously contrasting against his dark skin. She always had a thing for blue eyes. She suddenly remembered Michael once again. She silently cursed at herself.

“Uhhh…hello to you too. It’s been six whole months, and that’s what you open with?” Nic replied. “And, yes, I do.”

“Oh, you actually counted? Careful, you’re getting too close.”

Nic handed her a goblet of chilled white wine. “Which one were you again? White wine…you’re Susan, aren’t you?”

She laughed, took a sip of her wine, and kissed him. “Good save. Much better.”

It didn’t take long for them to get to the point and get into bed. She and Nic were good and hot and heavy as usual.

She quickly got her clothes back on after they’d finished. Nic lay silently in bed, already used to her exiting hastily like this; she was acting to his preference after all. She was acting out of her own preference too.

“I gotta get to the office in a few hours,” she mumbled vainly. Not that he cared, or let alone knew what her job was. She did tell him once about being a spy the one time he asked, but he laughed it off as a joke, and then never asked her again.

“You going back to LC soon?” he asked sleepily.

“Dunno yet,” she replied. “I might be here in LS for a while. Might be here a few, several months for a project. Everything’s still up in the air.”

“Hmm, a’ight, I’ll text you when I’m back here, yeah?”

“Sure. Just let me know.”

One of Ari’s favourite things about Los Santos was how quickly cabs arrived after calling. She could do it—she could tell the cab driver to take her back to the Richman Hotel and finish what she’d started with Michael. Michael could be another Nic. The attraction between them was there, for sure. Although IAA rules mandated officers shouldn’t start romantic or sexual relationships with their assets, _everyone_ was pretty much doing it. 

Best of all, he was already married. What she liked about picking up married men was that they were someone else’s burden at the end of every day. Not hers. No ball and chain to hold her down.

As she was about to step into the cab, she received a text. Speak of the devil.

_Couldn’t sleep. Thought about it. I’m in.  
\- Michael_

Ari found herself smiling at her phone screen. She got her man. Mission accomplished. There was going to be plenty of time to deal with him. She felt fatigue start to catch up on her, so she decided to tell the driver the address to the apartment she was renting in East Vinewood. Her co-workers gave her flak for the choice of neighbourhood, but it was close enough to the IAA headquarters in Pillbox Hill, and it had a view of the mountains.

That was the retirement dream—a little house of her own somewhere up in the mountains. She’d have to train one of her cats to dial emergency services if she suddenly dropped dead, so they can pick up her corpse.

She couldn’t sleep either once she got home. Maybe she made the wrong choice.


	4. Love Will Tear Us Apart

Michael never considered himself to be a creature of solitude. It was why he always relied on Lester for jobs. It was why he always ran with a crew. It was why he started a family. 

Tonight afforded him the epiphany that maybe his own assessment of himself was completely wrong. There were the countless times he’d rather sit by the pool, undisturbed. The times he’d drive up to the desert. The hills. The beach. Anywhere. Nowhere.

It wasn’t like the time his wife and kids left him alone in this mansion during his meltdown. In this hotel room, high above ground, he felt an inner calmness that was novel yet welcome. He debated calling one of them to check up—not too late to get started on this family man thing. Tracey probably won’t pick up her phone if she was dancing; Jimmy was likely drunk-dead, stoned, or both, and Amanda…actually, he didn’t want to know.

Mind still abuzz and not able to sleep, he’d opened up the minibar and found it empty— Agency bastards—only to find a note from Agent Luna, scribbled in her neat cursive handwriting— _I want your sober consent!_ Instead, he’d opted to avail of the express laundry service for his clothes, changing into the hotel-branded silk pajamas he found in the closet. 

A notification lit up his phone, but it was Lester’s intel on the female IAA agent. She had to have some sort of checkered past to be working with the IAA…maybe a convicted criminal who got off on a deal to work with them…like they were doing with him now. He didn’t have the time to read through everything right now, but he swiped through the different documents Lester had sent him. He was looking for a rap sheet or a psychiatric record of some sort, but there was nothing like that so far. There were a few IAA documents that were too redacted to have any useful information. The most shocking thing that stood out from his scanning was that she was in her mid-thirties, closer to his own age than she was to Tracey, like he’d assumed from how youthful she looked. That explained the cynicism, not that younger people weren’t capable of it. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised about her real age, after all, once he saw that she could write in cursive. He'd taken the note from the minibar, and he looked at it again and chuckled at the double-entendre of her statement. He held it closer to his face, and he could smell the same scent he had smelled and tasted on her when he’d buried his face in her neck. It was an unusually intriguing perfume—marigold, vetiver, jasmine, musk, and cedarwood. The audacity of wearing a bright, sunny fragrance on a cold winter night? Michael would never dare do it himself, but on her, the unorthodoxy seemed apt.

On the note, he found faint traces of ink and an embossment of another note that had been on top of it. Hey, she was a spy. Maybe this was a secret message of some sort. He found a pencil and swiped it across the paper to reveal the hidden message.

_Au milieu de l’hiver, j’apprenais enfin qu’il y avait en moi un été invincible._

He painstakingly typed the phrase in Eyefind on his phone. It was a quote from an essay by Albert Camus. No wonder she’d enjoyed his Sartre joke. 

_In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there lay within me an invincible summer._

Did she deliberately write it there for him to find? Or did he accidentally uncover some little private insight of hers? Either way, it didn’t matter; the line struck a chord within him somehow. He stared at the translated quote in the same way that 50 was staring at him in the face. He often thought about his fake funeral on a snowy day in Ludendorff and how he’d sworn his eventual real funeral would not go by the way of the late Michael Townley with his pathetic eulogy. 13 years later…how was that going? 

He took his phone in one hand and Agent Luna’s card in the other. As soon as he hit “send” on his affirmative response to her, he felt unease and anxiety. But at least he was feeling something. It was the same feeling he’d always had whenever starting out a job, only this time, without the looming possibility of death. It was actually a welcome change this time. It was a sign he was definitely getting old, he realized.

* * *

He drove back to his mansion later that morning, if only to retrieve a bottle of cologne to round out his newly pressed suit. Michael knew the importance of projection and how the sillage of a perfectly chosen scent conveyed it. It would have been just as easy to stop by Leopold’s or Didier Sachs to buy a new bottle, but he also wanted to get over his dread of not knowing if his family would return home or not.

“Daddy’s back, bitches,” Michael roared as he went in through the front door, hoping to elicit a response of some sort. “Jim, Trace, Manda, hello?”

He sensed movement from the couch in the living room; and thankfully, it was Tracey, the family member he wanted to see the most, intact.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he called as he walked over to his daughter, “you didn’t stay with your mother?”

“Mom’s here,” Tracey mumbled sleepily, her eyes still closed, “so is Jimmy.”

“I thought she was going to check into some hotel or something.”

“Yeah. All hotels were fully booked, and there’s no way we’d check into a motel. Duh.”

“How was your night? Parties any good?”

Tracey sat up straighter on the couch so she could stare at her father, while silently recalling if anything that happened in her past night was appropriate to tell her own father. “Yeah…actually. I ran into Lazlow, and he got me into this mansion near Lake Vinewood…I think it was some producer’s party. Why don’t we throw parties like that here, huh?”

“Hmm, yeah, that’s a good idea. Who knows? Maybe soon.”

Tracey narrowed her eyes. “Why are you in a good mood? After spoiling all our big plans?”

“I’m not such a pariah in Vinewood after all. I’m still a producer, baby. Everything’s going to be all right,” Michael said.

“Dad, that’s great!” Tracey exclaimed. “Now, you gotta give me my break, right?”

“What did you just say?” Amanda joined them in the living room, arms folded across her chest.

Michael turned to his wife, a little triumphant smile on his face as he opened his arms towards her. “I get to keep working in Vinewood. Just like we all want. I got a producer job with another studio.”

“In a day? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

There was a reluctant beat before a smile spread across Amanda’s face. “That’s wonderful. I have some good news of my own…. You know how I was telling you I wanted to teach tennis and yoga to the homeless? …Well, I talked to a producer at a club last night, and he wants to document me doing just that with a reality show!”

Michael chuckled sardonically. “Oh, honey. Vinewood producers say all kinds of bullshit. Trust me, that guy just wanted to sleep with you….”

“He’s gay.”

“…Or was just high up on shrooms or something.” Michael waved his hand dismissively. “Because who the hell wants to watch a reality show about that stupid idea?” 

“You know, this happens every time with you.” Amanda’s voice rose. “I haven’t even finished explaining what I have to say, and you just have to weigh in with your almighty and infallible insight.”

“Because my insight is true! It’s stupid!” Michael bellowed.

“Well, guess what,” Amanda spat, “I always thought you were deluded since you left me that voicemail about making something out of your life by making movies. You were nowhere even near being an actual producer; you were just a glorified lapdog, an errand boy in reality. But you know what? I kept my mouth shut and let you be. Because I saw you were happy. That’s what a good wife does.”

“Oh! Does a good wife fuck every dick within a one-mile radius?”

“You’re changing the topic! I thought we agreed to work through this. I’ve done my part. But you’re still the same condescending shitbag. The least you could do is support me in something I enjoy doing. I thought you were coming around when you took up yoga. But for some reason, you never wanted to take up yoga with me.”

In what was a rare occurrence, Michael was at a loss for words. He paused to think before he fumbled under his breath, “I’m still really bad at it, while you’re a pro.”

Tracey decided to speak up, “Dad, you know how Mom kept telling me she would often let you win at tennis even if it was her sport?”

“It’s been emotionally tiring, Michael, having to keep up in your orbit,” Amanda sighed. “I thought things were going to change in the last few months, but…it’s been the same old story. It always has to be you in the centre of the universe, and fuck what anyone else thinks or does, right? Did I even get a say when you decided to fake your death and move out here to Los Santos?”

“That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it,” he rasped. “It always comes back to that. Amanda…I did it for you…for the kids.”

“You keep saying that, but I…I don’t…I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Tracey had spent most her parents’ argument scrolling and tapping at her cell phone, after living through her parents’ countless arguments, but Michael sensed there was something different with this particular one.

“You’re sick of being in my orbit? Fine,” Michael muttered. “Then get the hell out of it. See how you do without me.”

“I can still stay here, right? I don’t want to have to couch-surf,” Tracey sang.

“See how well you do on your own,” Amanda said, but to his surprise, it wasn’t said with sarcasm, but with sympathy.

He and Amanda made verbal threats, even death threats, at each other all the time, and neither actually acted upon it. Yesterday was a prime example. It was part of their relationship’s dynamic, in a way. But for a fleeting moment, his mind went dark at the possibility that she would actually leave again.

“I’m going to do this, Michael. With or without you. Maybe it’s better that I try something new, something different, for once. You keep falling into the same pattern, it seems, like our therapist said. How did you get a job offer so quickly, by the way, after being blacklisted in Vinewood? It’s almost too good to be true. Is this another FIB deal?”

“No, it’s not another FIB deal. That doesn’t matter. I got an honest job. I’m trying to get back on track, without all the crime and the secrets, can’t you see?”

Amanda studied her husband for a beat. “Sounds like you’re already keeping a secret from me.”

“What’s all this, Amanda? Why now? What happened last night?”

“I don’t know…I was so, so mad at you yesterday…until I got so tired. Then I realized, I wouldn’t have felt that way if I didn’t have my energy always revolve someone like you, who has no centre. I had a feeling you would react like this when I told you, so I started thinking. And it’s finally come to this. We should try this separation, for real, this time.”

Michael immediately turned to his daughter, who didn’t seem surprised or shocked by her mother’s suggestion. Her face was actually out of her phone this time.

“What about the kids?” he murmured vainly.

“I’m a grown adult, Dad,” Tracey huffed. “It sucks, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe this would also wake the fuck out of Jimmy for once.”

Michael shook his head at Amanda. “I won’t allow it.”

Amanda sighed. “I’m not asking for your permission. Wake up, Michael. Please. For everyone’s sake.” On that note, she turned on her heel and walked away.

Michael glanced over at Tracey and said very slowly, “So you _didn’t_ go to any parties last night….”

“I’m just as good a liar as you are.” Tracey shrugged. “The three of us stayed in and talked last night, hoping you’d come back and we’d think it through. But you never did, Dad. Where were you all night?”

“I already told you what came out of my night. I was busting my balls off, trying to smooth-talk my way back in Vinewood, and I did. I did it. That’s what I was doing, for the sake of this family.” He very conveniently left out the part where he was flirting and making out with another woman.

“Stop. _Stop it._ Be accountable for your own choices for once. You don’t have to pin it on everyone else all the time.” With that, Tracey hopped off the couch and walked away as well.

Michael sank back onto the couch. He didn’t realize he was doing it, but he had taken his phone and opened the text he’d sent Agent Luna.

His wife’s and his daughter’s words started to sink in as they echoed in his mind. Maybe they had a point.

_I wanted this. All of it._

* * *

Debriefings were never Ari’s favourite part of the job, but in light of a successful recruitment mission, it was tolerable. She usually would be debriefed by Bernard, the senior agent whom she respected as a colleague. He was a pragmatist, and it was he who had recommended to try to get Michael De Santa on board as an asset, after De Santa had been a pain in the IAA’s ass for several instances, in Bernard’s own words.

She held her breath when in the meeting room, she did not see Bernard as she’d expected. Instead, it was a much younger man, about her age, who was studying her reports. 

“Officer Luna, welcome back. I hear you had some well-deserved time-off.” Royce Taggart looked up and gave her a smarmy grin that sent shivers down her spine.

“I got some well-needed rest, and I’m ready to get back on the field,” Ari said in as even a tone as she could muster.

“You’re handling this demotion well, from what I’ve read of your reports so far. Top-notch stuff as always. Maybe a little too good. I’m surprised to see you working a case like this. You should’ve been running the Foreign Office in Paris by now. Such a fall from grace.”

“I do what the job demands of me,” she said simply, “I embrace the variety. It keeps me on my toes.”

Royce rolled his eyes. “Honey trapping degenerates? Not sure I agree with Bernard recommending this loser. It’s a waste of agency resources, if you ask me.” He closed the file folder and threw it onto the table.

She looked him squarely in the eye. “No job or person is beneath me. Not even you.” She cleared her throat. “Is Bernard coming?”

Royce waved his hand. “Bernie had to screw off to LC this morning. He asked me to run your debrief in his stead.” He flipped open the laptop on the table. “We’re going to go through the audio at the hotel room.”

Ari’s only saving grace was that she knew the debriefing was also going to be recorded for a third officer to review later. “You’re going to have to start right away because I have a meeting in an hour.”

“Tell me what you were wearing last night,” Royce smirked.

Ari shot a dagger look at him, and his smirk grew before he started recording their conversation. After Royce officially headed the debriefing session, Michael’s raspy, nasal tenor filled the room, and it was a more than welcome distraction. She tried hard not to visibly cringe in front of Royce when she started talking on the tape—she hated hearing her own voice played back.

“You’re fully aware that every possible scenario can play out, so what did you have in mind when you told De Santa you were still willing to, in his words, fuck him?” Royce said calmly, looking straight at her. “Were you going to go that far to enlist him as an asset?”

The most annoying thing about Taggart was that he wasn’t exactly an idiot—he knew exactly how to get a rise out of someone even while being “professional”. 

“I played to his file, knowing that he was a womanizer and that he had narcissistic tendencies,” Ari said flatly. “I sensed that his ego was hurt when I told him who I really was. Just there, he was trying to shift the balance of power right back to him after getting caught off guard. I knew he was going to call my bluff because he wanted to seize control. I made a judgment call, and I was confident it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Oh, very good non-answer. I’ll let that one slide,” Royce whispered.

“It was part of my underlying strategy to play to his ego to gain his trust,” Ari went on, ignoring his comment, “I told him things he wanted to hear, noting his feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred. Even if it meant validating and praising his past criminal activities.”

“Seeing as the timeline accelerated all of a sudden, is there anything that you wish you could have done differently?”

Ari paused to think. She did have an idea, but it wasn’t going on the record. “No. I was prepared and I knew the asset’s history well. This was the ripe time to exploit an emotional nadir.”

The rest of the audio played with Royce continuing the interrogation, and apart from Michael and Lester’s phone conversation, there was no other interesting event that followed, at least from the agency’s perspective. She just found it amusing, perhaps even thrilling, that Michael had wanted to know who she was going to meet afterwards.

“Might I remind you that the only reason the IAA is even touching this case and wants it settled ASAP is because a very important friend of the agency was victimized,” Royce said.

“I know, I know,” Ari mumbled, “and said friend is withholding any payments….”

_“…Donations….”_

“… _Donations_ to the agency until they get their money back. Or this con-artist’s head on a plate.”

“It should be short work for an officer of your caliber, Luna. So long as your golden boy plays ball.”

“He’ll play ball,” Ari said, “and if not, I’ll make sure he does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is all just for my own fun; I'm not aiming for John le Carré here. If anyone is actually reading this and got this far, thanks for taking a chance on a very unusual fic. I'm probably the only person on this planet who's interested in Michael's Vinewood adventures, and I'd actually like to do a whole series if only I had the time and readers lol.


	5. Albatross

Now that he was already in the Agency’s camp, Michael wondered if they continued to follow him to keep up their intel on him. What exactly did they have on him in their file? He’d spent the last night wondering if the IAA—Agent Luna in particular—was stealthily following him as he spent hours driving by himself around the Vinewood area before settling into Hornbills. Was she aware that the club’s mainstays knew him by name? Did she know he availed of five lap dances and polished off half a bottle of whiskey that was kept for him on the bar’s shelf? Did she also know he managed to sweet-talk one of the dancers, also a pretty brunette, into dropping her off home? Did she know that he wished he was fucking her instead? Did she keep tabs on all of his past transgressions with strippers and prostitutes? Did she find out about his wife leaving him for what looks to be the definitive time?

He wasn’t sure how, as he was just half-awake, but from Chamberlain Hills, he managed to drag himself later that morning to the address she’d given him, to an office building on West Eclipse Boulevard. The IAA’s Vinewood front was a company called Albatross Productions, which he’d never heard of until Agent Luna had told him. He found the sign by the ajar door and ignored the few other people in the office when he entered and staggered towards an empty chair in a dark corner, burying his face in his hands.

And then, marigolds. 

His blue eyes fluttered open to see Agent Luna standing over him, looking at him with a slightly amused gaze, handing him a bottle of water. Her sweet, floral fragrance intensified as it settled around them in the little corner of the room. He almost didn’t recognize her on first glance in her more natural make-up. His gaze fell on her heart-shaped lips that were now painted a dirty pink. His heart raced.

“Sober up, soldier,” Ari said softly. “Coffee’s brewing. It’ll be ready in a few.” 

Michael mumbled a thank you and took a gulp of the ice cold water. It helped immensely.

“What happened to you? Did you rob an armoured truck on the way here?”

He hoped it was an indication that she had no clue of what he’d been up to last night. He sat up straighter. “Nothing. What gives you that idea?”

“You have guilt written all over your face.” She was studying his fine jawline, which she once traced with her lips, and was now speckled with stubble. She had to keep herself from reaching out to stroke her fingers through his hair, to smooth a bit of hair that had stuck out from the top of his head. It was unfair how men could be unkempt, and women would still find them totally attractive.

Michael rolled his eyes. He expected to see her with an accusatory glance, like Amanda often did, but she still held that same amused look. “It’s just what I look like before caffeine,” he grumbled.

She looked at him skeptically before she walked towards the centre of the office. It was small enough that she was within eyeshot of everyone in the room. “Good morning, everyone,” she said in a projected voice that commanded everyone’s attention. “Let’s begin with this brief. In attendance today are Carlo Diaz, Etienne Kang, Ariadne Luna, and Michael De Santa.”

Three pairs of eyes turned towards Michael in the corner, after he had already helped himself to a cup of coffee. Etienne must be the Korean-looking one, well dressed in a purple suit and well coiffed, and absolutely magnetic. That meant the little brown one would be Carlo. Both men looked just as ageless as Ari, and Michael swore he felt his bones creak.

A phone rang, and Ari answered it with a terse “Luna,” and hung up immediately. “ _Fuck_ ,” she silently mouthed before she walked over to unlock the door. A tall blond man entered. “Royce Taggart is also joining us,” she announced. “Welcome to Albatross Productions.”

“My, how the mighty have fallen,” Royce smirked.

Michael was about to retort violently, but he noticed Royce was looking right at Ari, whose nostrils flared, with lips taut in a thin line. Well, this deal got a lot more interesting. 

Ari began, “With the exception of Officer Taggart, who is only here to observe, you are all here as operatives for Operation Tusk, which is divided in three chronological missions—Accelerate, Assimilate, and Amplify. The person of interest is an unidentified female whom we refer to internally as the Cardinal. Over emails and phone calls, the Cardinal impersonates powerful female figures in Vinewood such as Olivia Easter….”

“The head of Sentinel Pictures. Have you met Olivia Easter, De Santa?” Royce turned to Michael.

“I know who Olivia Easter is, of course,” Michael muttered. “I’m sorry, Agent Luna, please continue.”

Ari cleared her throat. and turned her back on Royce, facing the other three men instead. “So the Cardinal makes her marks believe that they are talking to Olivia Easter, for example, and promises them work on a big production she’s working on in Indonesia. She initially targeted a bunch of freelancers—photographers, military consultants, fashion consultants…who doesn’t want to work with Olivia Easter? For them, it’s a huge break. She tells them to go to Indonesia, on their own expense, with the promise of reimbursement on all expenses later. A local contact gets in touch with them, allegedly on Easter’s behalf. They ask for money. Which ‘Easter’ promises to repay later. And another payment and another payment. Until all of a sudden, they’re down as much as three hundred grand. We’re not sure exactly why they’re asked to go all the way to Indonesia, but eliminating the paper trail is the simplest, likeliest explanation.

“The thing is, this chick really, really sounds like Easter. It’s almost flawless. To any casual person or Vinewood insider, you’d think it really was her, if you pull up any video interview of the real Easter. It’s not just Easter she impersonates, but dozens of other prominent women in Vinewood. She is without a doubt well-rehearsed, educated, intelligent, and cultured. What is also remarkable is how much personal information she brings up to her marks. A lot of it was easily gleaned from perusing public information like news articles and social media. But there are also some private details that can only be known by friends or acquaintances that she is able to exploit. This leads us to believe that the Cardinal is not working alone. We are not sure if she has other people working for her, if she answers to someone else, or if she is a member of an organized crime group. We tried tracing her whereabouts, but it is a well-encrypted virtual labyrinth, as Carlo, our point person on tech, has figured with the rest of the agency’s cyber security analysts. Not even our one of our better consultants—” Ari shot a knowing look at Michael, who immediately understood. “—could unravel it either.”

Agent Luna was a confident and commanding speaker, Michael had to admit, recognizing some of his old tricks—a firm but approachable voice, open body language, eye contact. It was nice being on the receiving end of a mission briefing for a change.

Royce rolled his eyes. “My god, Vinewood people sound incredibly stupid. All they have to do is ask this lady to go on a video call, and if she refuses repeatedly, then it can’t possibly be the real Olivia Easter.”

Michael shook his head. “That’s not how the industry in Vinewood works. I should know. It was also a lot like how it worked back when I was.…” He paused to think of an appropriate word. “…an _entrepreneur_ and I had to work with other enterprising _entrepreneurs_ in my crew. One’s word is currency. If you do a good job, word gets around. A lot of it is good faith, or blind trust. I just had to trust someone else with my own life lots of times, on his word, and nothing more, because a lot of times, I had no choice. You just gotta hope for the best, or you got nothing. You’re never gonna trust anyone if you always have to watch your own back. Lord knows I’ve gotten burned on a few deals too. But more often than not, it’s worked out because people, for the most part respect, that de facto system.”

“Then what about calling the real Olivia Easter?” Royce asked.

“A few marks were able to contact the real personality’s people to verify,” Ari said. “But it’s more of the exception than the norm, because as Michael explained, people in Vinewood generally go on one’s word as gospel, without any question.”

“I still can’t believe so many dumb people fall for a fucking scammer,” Royce said.

“Don’t underestimate the power of charm. By the accounts we’ve gathered so far, she is one charming snake. She really made them want to trust her,” Ari said. “A lot of the marks were middle-aged straight white men. Usually desperate and lonely.”

Michael frowned. That hit a little too close to home. “If you say she targets freelancers, I don’t understand where I figure in as a producer.”

“Oh, she’s starting to get ambitious, you see,” Ari said. “Where once she was targeting some gullible, sometimes desperate freelancers, she’s starting to aim higher…she’s gunning for richer, more prominent producers. What’s getting interesting is that it’s starting not to be about money anymore. She’s getting bored. She’s gotten really good at her game, and she knows it. She’s starting to do it for sport. Not simply for the challenge—but for _pleasure_.”

“Okay, I’m bait. How exactly am I going to get her attention?” Michael asked.

“That’s going to be Etienne’s realm,” Ari said. “He’s the PR maven responsible for Poppy Mitchell’s redemption. All up to her AA Awards win the other night.”

“For real?” Michael turned to Etienne, actually impressed. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“You’re not my first murderer in Vinewood, by the way.” Etienne held a finger to his lips and winked. “If I can turn Poppy Mitchell around, you and your cheekbones and broad shoulders should be a piece of cake. You know how we’re going to put your reputation back on track? It starts with a ‘C.’”

“Uh…charity?” Michael guessed.

Etienne snorted a laugh. “ _Casino._ ”

“From our intel, most if not all of the victims have been to the Vinewood Casino, which is likely how they’re marked,” Ari said. “It stands to reason the Cardinal has eyes inside the casino, if she is not in there herself. The data we’ve gathered and analyzed so far on the casino’s owners, staff, and stakeholders have not provided conclusive evidence on the Cardinal's identity. Besides, Indonesia is a long way from here; the casino is right there. We’ll focus our surveillance on our own turf for now.

“For the first phase, Accelerate—Michael, you’re going into the casino and spend a lot of money. It’s going to have to be your money. Preferably, you should win big or lose big to really get the Cardinal's attention. In-between won’t cut it. We need to move quickly with our timeline. Whether you win or lose, Etienne can push out a flattering narrative in the press.”

“I choose to win big. Obviously,” Michael said firmly. The casino! Why had he never thought of that before? It was right there under his nose all this time! Maybe he could get Lester to get a hold of the casino’s floor and security plans, or maybe he could just DIY like he did Epsilon. He’d ride up to the parking lot in his motorcycle, casually not take his helmet off, go to the poker room nearest the escape route, pull out his gun, and oh-so-nicely ask everyone to put all their chips in his bag. By the time security would realize what had gone on, he’d be back on his bike, long gone….

“… _Mikey!_ Are you with me?” Ari’s sudden use of his pet name brought Michael back to the present. “Etienne was asking you something.”

“You think you can bring your wife with you to the casino?” Etienne asked. “She’s actually gorgeous, you know. You have a good head start in that you’re already painfully nouveau riche in that overbearing Rockford Hills way. Your wife, most especially. Can you bring her on board throughout this operation as well? Having a pretty fashionable wife would really help with your public image.” 

Michael grimaced. “Can we get to do this without my wife at all? We’re not really on good terms as of late.”

Etienne’s eyes widened. “Even better. Every married producer in Vinewood is fucking a piece on the side anyway. You need a young, nubile girlfriend then.” His head snapped towards Ari.

It took three full seconds for Ari to realize what Etienne was getting at. “What?” she exclaimed, panicky, and it was the first time since Michael met her that he was seeing her calm and cool demeanour slip away. It was kinda cute, although he was also insulted she didn’t jump at the idea. “Nah-uh…we didn’t discuss…I didn’t clear this!”

Etienne shrugged. “Girlfriend or assistant. Take your pick.”

“What?! Neither! No way I’m getting roped in,” Ari shouted. “Is a trophy female really fucking necessary?”

“Yes. It’s Vinewood,” Etienne and Michael said in unison.

“Oh, you are _good_ ,” Michael nodded. “I would trust you with my life.” He turned to Ari. “Come on, captain, all hands on deck.”

Ari sighed. “Fine. Assistant it is,” she said through gritted teeth as she threw up her hands in exasperation.

“Okay, but everyone’s going to assume you’re his lover anyway,” Etienne mumbled as he started scribbling in a leather-bound notebook. He paused from writing and studied Michael. “You just have that aura about you.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Michael sighed, “by everyone except my wife, of course. And my kids. That’d be creepy.”

“Wait, why are you listening to him when he said he didn’t want his wife involved and not to me when I said I didn’t want to be involved?” Ari protested.

“He’s my client. He’s the one whose rep I’m reviving,” Etienne said nonchalantly. “Also, I eat sausages, not oysters, remember?”

While Carlo laughed, the look on Ari’s face was a cross between horror and amusement, not sure if she had to give into her sense of humour, or if she had to stay professional. Michael had to laugh at how adorable her mixed reaction was.

“While you’re running your amateur-hour, high school musical here, Luna, I have to join another briefing at HQ where I get to take down an international human trafficking ring, and…you know, actually save lives. Do important work. Adios, amigos.” Royce got up from his seat and slammed the door behind him as he exited.

The three of them left in the room stared at each other for a silent few seconds, until Etienne scoffed, “Well, that’s the one prick I wouldn’t want to suck,” sending the others into fits of giggles once again.

Ari concluded the meeting with the group, as Etienne had other appointments as well. As Carlo resumed working in one corner of the room, she pulled up a chair in front of Michael. It was a relief to her that he did brush his hair back into place, or else she really would have done it herself. “How’s your first day on the right side of the law so far?”

“You do know I worked with the FIB,” Michael pointed out.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and Michael played along. “Yes, it’s my first day on the right side of the law, and it’s been splendid,” he said dryly.

“Good. The second phase is getting you working back in Vinewood to prove you are an influential producer. Etienne’s been in touch with his contacts to get you some scripts and party invites. Get your name and face out there. You’ll also actually have to set up some meetings to get you back in the circuit. You think you can keep up with that?”

“Of course I can handle it. Any clod with charms and connections can be a movie producer. I suppose the third phase involves me keeping contact with the Cardinal once she reaches out?”

“If all goes to plan, ideally,” Ari said. “You’re really going to have to sell that you trust her, that you believe her, that you are willing to do her bidding. It’s going to take a fair amount of time, many months, so that we can really get to the bottom of this.” She gave him a weak smile. “Are you prepared to be in here for the long haul? You’re not just going to abandon my mission once you’re a Vinewood bigwig?” 

Again, Michael recognized the motivation tricks he’d employ with his own personnel—this time, with the one-on-one, to try to get him in a state of confidence and comfort, and she was getting him to state his engagement out loud.

“I told you, and you already know. In my line of work, my word is gospel. By the way, I thought you said this was a legitimate movie studio. Where’s everyone else?”

“It’s legitimate in the sense books are kept and movies are made with Albatross’s name in the end credits. But you get to be the studio’s face.”

“Fucking A. You serious?” Michael laughed. “I wish you pitched that to me first instead of shitting all over my life choices and sending me into an existential crisis. You didn’t even need to do the whole Mata Hari dance.” He paused, and then said in a low voice, “Although I did enjoy it. Tell me you did too.” 

Jesus Christ, that smooth, tobacco-tinged voice sent vibrations through her that warmed her body. She didn’t expect either of them to be flirting again so soon; but it was always an adrenaline rush, to be desired by someone and to be attracted to someone. She knew her cheeks were flushed, and she tried to ignore it and his sea-blue eyes that were locked onto her. She didn’t have to answer verbally, and they both knew it. 

“Are you going to have a problem working with Etienne?” she asked, quickly changing the topic.

Michael looked at her, surprised. “What? No, why would I? He’s a blast.” He sighed. “It just occurred to me Richards Majestic could have just hired him or someone like him. But they didn’t.”

“You get to know who has your back when you’re at your lowest lows.”

From quoting Camus and now this…this could only be said by someone who’d also lived through a fair amount of pain herself. He gave her a sad smile that just about ended her. 

“But _you_ though….” Michael leaned forward in his seat, his hands cradling his coffee cup between his legs. “Why’d you have such a problem when Etienne suggested you act as my girlfriend?”

“I don’t believe it’s necessary to the mission at all.” Ari shook her head. It was a half-truth.

Michael lowered his voice, even if he’d noticed Carlo had his headphones on over on the other side of the room. “Or is it because Dominic is going to be jealous?”

He noticed a short flash of panic in her eyes before she chuckled. “Fucking Lester Crest. Of course.”

“You surprise me, Agent. I never pegged you as a chocolate lover,” Michael said playfully.

Ari was shaking her head but smiling. “Oh, but who says I’m only into chocolate?” 

“Oh? What else are you into? Tell me.”

Ari bit her lower lip, which sent wild thoughts through his mind. “…Well, I did say I would act as your assistant, didn’t I?”

“Indeed, you did.” He shoved his empty coffee mug into her hand. “You can start by getting me another coffee.”

She stood up and laughed. “If I didn’t have to rely so much on you for this case, I’d get your coffee and pour it all over your balls.” She slammed the mug on a nearby table and walked away.

Michael smiled. It felt really good to be back in the game. _Really_ good.


	6. Sympathy for the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _…Let me please introduce myself  
>  I’m a man of wealth and taste  
> And I laid traps for troubadours  
> Who get killed before they reach Bombay_
>> 
>> _Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name  
>  But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game…._
>> 
>> _…Just as every cop is a criminal  
>  And all the sinners saints  
> As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer  
> ‘Cause I'm in need of some restraint_
>> 
>> _So if you meet me, have some courtesy_  
>  _Have some sympathy and some taste_  
>  _Use all your well-learned politesse_  
>  _Or I'll lay your soul to waste_

Ari giggled when Michael stepped out of his walk-in closet, lip-syncing to the Rolling Stones’ chorus of “woo-woo”s with raise the roof gestures. It was both adorable and gloriously corny.

They were both finally in his bedroom—in his empty house because God knows where the rest of his family had fucked off to—but it was to get dressed to leave. For the past week, Michael had been spending his nights at the Vinewood Casino, playing his way into VIP high roller status—which the casino finally acknowledged by offering to pick him up from his residence, among other perks. At the same time, a number of IAA officers and agents went in undercover to keep track of suspicious individuals, focusing on the casino staff or patrons who may have taken a sudden interest in Michael’s newfound gambling problem. Ari also asked Michael to identify people at the casino whom he knew from Vinewood, in case they would eventually be targeted as well.

Tonight was the final night they’d planned for Michael to play, and it was the only night Ari was assigned to go onto the floor. While they focused their reconnaissance on female regulars at the casino, none of their profiles or histories rang any alarm bells, which put a damper on Ari’s hopes that the Cardinal was in there herself. From the past week’s intel and analysis, she had tagged a vagrant casino rat and former Vinewood grip named Vinnie Vitale, who was wanted in several states for fraud and identity theft plus a few other felonies, as a possible lead to the Cardinal.

“Are we going to be on radio?” Michael asked.

“No. A bunch of people talking to themselves a lot would look sketchy. It’s a casino; you can bet they’re watching every activity on the floor and in the gaming rooms like hawks,” Ari said. She was propped near the edge of the bed, lying on her side, with her head propped on a closed fist. “We don’t want casino security or management to detect us, in case they’re working with the Cardinal too.”

“Hmm…not the way I’d do it. I like to communicate with my team. I know it ain’t my show though.”

“This isn’t the brute force, run-and-gun type of job like you’re used to. Discretion is crucial.”

“Hey, I can be discreet. You know what ain’t discreet? That dress of yours. Do you own only one dress, Agent?” Michael asked. She was wearing the same little black velvet dress from the Richman Hotel. “They don’t pay you enough at the IAA to afford other dresses?”

“It’s my lucky dress,” Ari murmured. “I quite like it. It is discreet.”

“No, it’s not. And I hate it. I know there are other dresses here if you want. A lot of them still got the tags on. You can go inside the closet and take your pick. There are way too many unworn dresses here that I’m sure my wi….” His voice trailed off. Many of his wife’s dresses were still here. Did she abandon them or just forget? That meant she did intend to come back, right?

“You can say they’re your wife’s, Michael. I won’t melt. Do you not see me lying comfortably across this giant portrait of hers?”

“On second thought, since you got that stupid lucky dress on, you gotta be my hot date tonight in the VIP salon. I’ve already spent a cool mil this week, Agent, plus all the extravagant tips I’ve had to give out. I gotta recoup at least some of that. Let’s drink all the unlimited Blêuter’d we can and pass out dead drunk in the comp hotel suite they’re giving me at Von Crastenburg. They got 850 fill power goose down pillows up there. Fucking A, am I looking forward to that.”

Ari shook her head. “You know I can’t. I have to keep an eye out for Vitale.”

“Huh. Or are you just afraid you’re going to fall in love with me?”

He had uttered it in jest, keeping with his usual bravado-pumped sense of humour and the flirtation they’d thrown at each other all week. But from the body language Agent Luna just displayed, she turned so cold when she jolted from her transverse lying position to sit straight up on the bed. Her facial expression also became bereft of the warmth he had come to associate with her since the moment they’d met. It was as if an ice shield had surrounded her that instant. Whoa, what landmine did he step on there? Did it have to do with why she was in hot water at the Agency, as Taggart had hinted at? Or was it just the same thing she’d told him at the bar, that she never got attached?

Save for the music that was playing in the room, no other sounds occurred, and no words were spoken between them for what seemed like an eternity as Michael continued getting ready. Until finally, Ari checked her watch and said in a monotone, “We have to go soon. Since the VIP salon is off-limits to plebeians like us, you’ll have to wear these contact lenses. These are cameras that’ll let us see what you’re seeing, in case anyone there would also be tied to the Cardinal.” She held out her arm to him, a small white plastic case in her hand.

He was standing over her, and he looked with a lazy glance at the case in her hand. “I got perfect fucking vision. I’ve never worn contact lenses in my life. Unless you want me to waste thirty minutes trying to figure this shit out, you gotta put them in.”

Ari stormed to the bathroom to wash her hands and returned to see Michael sitting on the edge of the bed. She stood over him and tilted up his jaw, now clean-shaven and redolent with spicy aftershave that was mixing with the delicious cologne he’d dabbed on his neck. Next, she stabilized his right eyelid with her thumb and index finger. She found herself peering into the perfect circle of his iris; his pupil stared up right back at her, piercing through her soul. She’d never seen eyes so blue yet so clear at the same time; they were mesmerizing. They would be her undoing.

“Look down,” she commanded, partly to install the lens, and partly because she was getting unnerved. 

She placed a few eye drops before inserting the lens and telling him to look up. Seeing the crow’s feet that creeped from the corner of his eyes this close made her heart flutter. Dammit, why was attraction something that was out of anyone’s control? She repeated the process with the other eye, trying to move as quickly but delicately as possible.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at her with watery eyes as he blinked the second lens in place. He checked his phone when it beeped. “Well, the limo’s here. You can ride with me if—”

“I can’t,” she interrupted. “Since I have to chase down and take Vitale in, we have to avoid being seen together in the casino as much as possible, or else our cover will be—”

Michael frowned and waved his hand across his face as he wordlessly exited the bedroom so he could add one more accessory to his outfit. He bounded down the stairs and headed towards the study room, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. He peeled back one corner of a rug that concealed a trapdoor and took a key from his pocket to undo the lock and lifted the door, revealing concrete spiral steps that he used to descend into the cellar.

He saw a pair of black stiletto pumps in front of him when his eyes reached ground level a few minutes later. His eyes instinctively wandered up her skirt, and he confirmed a hunch he’d had when they were in his bedroom.

Ari pursed her lips when she saw he was outfitted with a leather shoulder holster that cradled an AP pistol with a suppressor. “That’s really not necessary. You shouldn’t be in any danger anyway. And I told you, we should be discreet.”

“This is plenty discreet. Unlike that fucking dress. And I don’t intend to use it,” Michael said. “It’s just insurance.”

“Is it loaded?” she asked.

“Of course it’s loaded,” he said in a haughty tone. “Otherwise it’s just a fucking paperweight.”

“Were you also carrying the past few nights?”

“No. Only tonight.” He locked the trapdoor and kicked the rug with his mahogany leather wingtips to unfurl it to its original place.

She was surprised. None of the other agents had reported any immediate threats escalating from the past nights. If there was any new information Michael had picked up on his recon, she had to know. “What changed?”

Michael shrugged on his jacket and locked into her large brown eyes, his blue eyes blazing. “ _You._ You’re going in.” His arm brushed her bare shoulder as he passed her towards the door. “I know you’re carrying too. I can’t let you have all the fun, Agent. Besides, you need someone to watch your back.”

She turned on her heel and followed him out of the study to watch his back walking away towards the front door. “Hey, I don’t need you to watch my—”

“Tough fucking tits,” Michael hollered before he slammed the front door behind him.

* * *

“So this is what it takes for others to give a shit about my case,” Ari sighed. “Now everyone wants in since it involves a casino? Even Taggart wanted in.”

A Rob’s Liquor container truck parked in the delivery bay at the casino’s basement served as the IAA’s onsite operations base. If there was anything the movies got right about espionage, it was that they had the goods on board—its own cellular transmitter, computers, monitors, printers, and even a vanity—tucked behind a facade of loaded pallets of alcohol for when anyone else chanced upon the open container. 

“It’s either this or tailing some random immigrant,” Karen Daniels said. “I don’t know why you seem to hate this case. I’d have taken it gladly. Easy A.”

“I don’t hate it. It’s just not what I’m used to. But it should be straightforward,” Ari said. “I just want to nail this greedy sociopathic bitch as soon as possible. And see if I can get that permanent post in Europe finally.”

“You’re not worried someone you’ll leave behind in Los Santos is going to miss you?” Karen teased.

“Nah, he’s married,” Ari said quickly.

Karen paused. “I was talking about Taggart. He’s in love with you, you know.”

“Of course I know,” Ari said defensively. She felt an unpleasant pit bloom in her stomach. She hadn’t known.

Karen stared at her friend and colleague in disbelief. “You were talking about De Santa? Oh my god. Oh, Ari….”

“Hey, who are you to talk, _Michelle_?”

“That’s why I’m warning you, _Bianca_. It was horrible to have to go through it and betray Niko like that.”

“This is different. We’ve moved past the betrayal stage. He already knows I’m IAA. The eye-fucking’s been magnificent since.”

Karen snickered. “I could tell you all sorts of bullshit like getting involved with an asset is verboten, or that it could compromise your missions, or that you’re getting involved with a married man yet again. But hey, you’re a big girl. You can handle your shit, can you?”

“Indeed. That’s why I’m just going to keep it flirtatious at best and purely sexual at worst. …Or is it flirtatious at worst and purely sexual at best?”

“Yeah, when you’re choosing between Taggart and the middle-aged bank robber-turned-film producer-slash-secret agent…I can see why you’re starting to be desperate, specially when we’re reaching a certain age."

Karen didn’t know about her arrangement with Dominic Proulx, which was a whole other can of worms Ari wasn’t willing to disclose with her friend or anyone…Michael had been the only other person to find out. 

And then there was Michael’s jibe of her being afraid to fall in love with him….

She was getting distracted from the job at hand. Bad. Unbecoming of her. Ari checked the monitor that was showing the video transmission from Michael’s contact lenses. “Well…good for him, he’s on a roll. He went for poker tonight, eh? Looks like he’s got five hundred grand in chips here already?” She showed the video to Karen.

Karen frowned when she leaned over. “Uh-oh, that’s not good.”

“What’s not good?”

“I can tell from the getup and the bling. Looks like a couple of your boy’s playmates are Kenny Petrovic’s goons. Petrovic is now the most powerful Russian mob boss in LC, after his comrades were eliminated,” Karen said, pointing to one figure in the corner. “And looks like he’s losing big.”

“Petrovic…Russian mob? Oh hell no.” Ari felt the colour drain from her face. “They use this casino to launder money they’re bringing in directly from Mother Russia.” She said the last two words in a Russian accent, trying for humour to defuse her panic. “If Michael is cleaning out their chips, which I can only assume is Petrovic’s dirty money, they’re not going to be too happy about it….” She felt her head start to hurt. This was part of the job and nothing new, but did she ever hate it when things spiralled out of her control.

Karen pulled up the IAA’s classified database on the computer in front of her to try and figure out their identities. A few minutes later, she concluded, “I’m not certain about the other guy, but the one at De Santa’s ten o’clock is Pyotr Shevchenko, a.k.a The Shiv. Here’s his handiwork.”

“Holy shit.” Ari’s hands flew to cover her mouth in horror when Karen showed her the grisly image of a man’s skull crushed in a vice until it was five inches wide, with one of his eyeballs grotesquely dangling from its socket.

“This was Saban Pulaj, an Albanian gangster who dared steal Petrovic’s shipment of smuggled motorcycles out of Italy. This picture was taken for posterity, as a warning for anyone who dared wrong Petrovic. But that’s not the worst part,” Karen went on. “Poor dude was still breathing at this state. His testicles were also stabbed repeatedly with an ice pick. What eventually killed Pulaj was when Shevchenko doused with with gasoline and set him on fire.”

“Why can’t his handiwork be, something like, you know, a good old-fashioned knife stabbing if he’s called The Shiv?!” Ari exclaimed, shaking her head and burying her face in her hands. “...How could have I missed this? I knew the Russian mob had their tentacles in the Vinewood Casino. I should have at least accounted for it.” Now Ari’s conversation with Michael on not giving him comms was coming back to bite her. Now she was wholly responsible for sending her asset—who was only armed because he took it upon himself...for _her_ —into the tangle of the Russian mafia.

“Ari. No one saw this coming. The mob didn’t pop up in our surveillance until tonight, when we finally had eyes inside the VIP area. What are the odds they’d be at the same table as your boy? Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Karen assured her. “Your boy’s a slippery eel. I hate his fat ass for killing my detail, sure, but he can obviously handle himself.”

“That’s also what I’m scared of. He gets too much of the wrong attention in this casino, and the Cardinal might be on to him. I want her—or them—to think he’s a pathetic, gullible schlub. I mean…if he’s still alive long enough to get her attention.” Ari whipped out her phone and started calling Michael’s number. “I can’t reach him. I’m not even going to voicemail. He might be in a dead spot or something.” She felt her heart sink at the dramatic irony of her words. 

She tried sending him a text anyway, in case it went through— _Tank. Give all your chips back to the house. Ten and two o’clock are Russian mob. You’re pissing them off._

Karen looked over at the monitor with Michael’s video feed. “He got the text,” she said when the video focused on Michael seemingly accessing his messages.

“God, I wish this thing had audio too,” Ari grumbled helplessly at the dumb images.

Michael seemed to take a quick glance at Ari’s message before pocketing his phone again.

Ari’s jaw dropped. “Did he just seen-zone me?” Even if at the back of her mind, it was more likely prescribed casino etiquette on limiting phone use at a gaming table. She’d known this was a possibility with having someone like De Santa on her team—a lifelong alpha male refusing to follow a female leader’s orders. A tale as old as time. Damn the patriarchy and all that. But he’d made her believe that he could be reined in, and she had fallen for it.

Ari sent another text to Michael when he kept raising his bets and raking in chips— _Step away from the table. You’re done for the night._ —when her persistent calling became an exercise in vain. Again, she watched him take a cursory glance at his phone, pocket it, and continue playing. A thought flashed through her mind. Was he defying her deliberately to passive-aggressively punish her? She felt her head throb yet again. For her sake, she hoped she just triggered an actual gambling addiction in him instead.

“What’s the status on Vitale tonight?” Ari mumbled.

“Flitting in and out somewhere in the northeast corner of the common floor,” Karen replied. “A few floors below your boy. The VIP’s salon also somewhere in the northeast.”

“I still gotta try to take him in,” Ari said. “Just to cover my bases. But first, I gotta extract my prized asset before he gets turned into borscht.”

“Taggart’s already inside. Why don’t you let him take Vitale in while you try to get to De Santa?” Karen asked. 

Ari rolled her eyes. “The absolute last thing I need is for Taggart to be a knight in shining armour for me.” The scene of Michael, armed with his pistol, emerging from his underground arsenal, saying the word _“You”_ flashed through her mind. Okay, make that the second to last.

“Now I regret worrying you like this. Didn’t expect you to get this worked up about it.”

“You, Officer Daniels, you just have a grudge against my boy and wouldn’t mind seeing him dead, don’t you? I can’t have De Santa’s blood on my hands, not when he has a family. I would also make an enemy out of Trevor Philips, and I am in no mood for that, not now, not ever.”

“Okay, okay, you got your mind set on this. What can I do to help?” 

Ari took a deep breath. “… I need a way to get into the VIP floor and get Michael out without raising any suspicion. Even Taggart with his WASPy stereotype got turned away because the casino knows he wasn’t a high roller.”

“Stereotype….” Karen echoed. She turned to Ari. “I have an idea to get you in without raising any alarm bells, but you might not like it.” She paused and eyed her colleague up and down. “…Actually, maybe you will.”


	7. Free Fallin'

The Vinewood Casino was nowhere near the draw that the glitzy themed casinos of Las Venturas were, but its 1940s throwback vibe and Art Deco feel were enough to lure the occasional celebrity with the secret gambling addiction (Tyler Dixon, looking at you). Paperwork had already been filed at City Hall to demolish the site and construct a luxury casino resort and hotel in its place, and the bigger capacity meant it was set to generate tens of millions more in gaming revenue especially from the anticipated influx of sports bettors (Los Santos is getting not one, but two football teams!). 

This really hadn’t been the way Ari had hoped to make her rounds in the casino tonight. It was supposed to be straightforward—get in through the front door as a regular patron, spot lead quietly, take lead in quietly for questioning. Instead, she, Karen, and Carlo had to map out a route starting from the utility entrance at the basement, reserved for employees and deliveries. Luckily, it had no guard, ID check, or even a metal detector. Ari slipped through with ease, not making contact with another living soul as she entered.

Then again, this whole operation was also supposed to be straightforward—recruit insider, set up insider as bait, lure bad ~~guy~~ gal, catch bad gal. And she already had problems at the start of the ‘recruit insider’ part.

 _You’re getting soft, Luna. This is not who you were,_ she silently admonished herself. _What’s happening? Old age? Biological clock ticking? What are you even doing right now?_

The nondescript office-like utility corridor hummed with the distant noise of screeching one-armed bandits and beeping video blackjack rigs. It was a given that there would be CCTVs, even in areas away from the general public, so it was important that Ari looked like she belonged. The first rule of confidence tricks was, _quelle surprise_ , confidence. As she made her way through the corridors, she returned a smile a security guard threw at her, and appreciatively eyed a comely waitress bussing away empty glasses. The waitress wasn’t as receptive. Bad day, perhaps. Ari was wondering if she was on her way to have one too.

In an ideal circumstance, she would have preferred a lot more make-up. It was amazing what even a woman’s everyday make-up can do when applied a certain way—contours to sharpen one’s facial structure, shadows and lines to transform one’s eyes, or her simple favourite, alterations to one’s eyebrows’ shape and colour. Especially in a dimly lit casino like this, it would have made for a convincing disguise.

Alas, there was no time for any of that, even if they had the means in the truck. So she had to settle for styling a blonde wig and pushing her breasts way up while Karen stuck on a pair of silicone lifters that let her cleavage spill out of the top of her bodice.

“Not what I’m used to. I’m usually a shy girl,” Ari had told Karen, who had snorted in response.

She reached the third floor and spotted the door to the VIP area towards the northeast side, moving through the passing employees with a purpose of her own. Its opening greeted her with a fragrant blast of vanilla, jasmine, lily and tuberose—pleasant scents intended to lull gamblers into an upbeat, spending mood—that all but covered up the burnt tobacco from their cigars. A big, beefy, bearded security guard stepped in her way from behind the door before she could go any farther.

“Excuse me, miss. You can’t enter….” His voice drifted off as his eyes landed on her chest, and then to the name tag affixed to one strap of her dress.

“Massage for the VIP Mr. Dee Saantah,” Ari said in a high-pitched valley girl accent. She popped the name tag, quickly cobbled for her by Carlo, who had looked up a massage company that regularly serviced the casino. “Connors told me he was up here.” She knew from Michael’s intel that Tom Connors was the casino’s head of guest services, who had taken care of him after he had lost a great deal of money. Rules two and three of confidence tricks—branding and authority.

The security guard nodded in understanding and tilted his head towards the poker tables. As she walked into the VIP room, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a few stares from casino patrons directed at her ass, if not her boobs. Maybe Michael had a point about her dress not exactly being discreet. Better they look at those parts than at her face.

Ari spotted Michael, who was still playing with the Russian mobsters seated at the same table. The one Karen had identified as Shevchenko was of average height and burly build, middle-aged, and heavily balding at the crown with thinning light brown hair. His comrade was roughly the same height but much stouter, and with a full head of brown hair. It was he who raked in the pot when she made her approach beside a sour-faced, tight-lipped Michael.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t need another refill,” Michael grumbled loudly above the busy din of voices in the room, keeping his eyes on the cards that the dealer was shuffling right in front of him.

“I’m here for your massage. Courtesy of the house,” Ari intoned loudly in the same valley girl accent. She placed a light hand on his shoulder.

With that, Michael snapped his head towards her, his eyes landing squarely on her cleavage, and then her name tag, and finally her face. Even beneath her blonde wig, his gaze softened in recognition. It was jarring how much Ari had sounded like his own daughter at that moment, only far less annoying.

“That does sound like something I need right now,” Michael said. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm, Candie.” One corner of his mouth was turned up into a sly smile.

Ari quietly swore to kill Karen and Carlo for the name choice, but first, she had to get herself and her asset out before the Russians decide to take their money back and then some. Now that she was finally with Michael, she had a rudimentary and absolutely uncertain plan to go about that, but this was all that she could settle on while keeping cover from whomever the Cardinal had watching on her behalf. But first, she had to present as a massage therapist to everyone else.

“I need you to turn your chair around, sir,” Ari said, leaning in a few inches away from his ear so he could hear. She hoped the honorific wasn’t too over the top.

Michael rose from his seat and complied, and Ari took her place behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders.

He turned his head around to face her. “Do I gotta lean forward, or do I gotta sit up straight?”

“Whatever is more comfortable, sir.”

“I got you doing this for one hour, right? Two?” He winked at her.

Ari pursed her lips. “Ten minutes.”

Michael snickered as he turned around to face the table, choosing to lean on the backrest. Ari started running her hands across his back, and then momentarily felt the hard bump of the gun he was concealing at his flank. She kneaded his shoulders and slowly made her way down to his upper back, tracing underneath the twin scapular spines with the pressure of her thumbs as best she could through the fabric of his designer suit. She felt the tension melt from his body.

“Yeah, baby, that feels good,” Michael murmured. He peeked at the hole cards that were dealt to him.

“Maybe, Chickie, you do me after him,” Shevchenko boomed loud enough for Ari to hear across the table.

Ari forced a smile at him. “Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

“I fold.” The comrade grumbled, throwing his cards across the felt surface.

“Ilia,” Shevchenko said in a light tone to his compatriot, “maybe you need massage too.”

“Yes, but I want massage to come from big, not small, woman,” Ilia said.

Michael and Shevchenko remained in play for the hand, both men with smaller stacks of chips in front of them as most had gone into the pot. The dealer laid down the flop, the three community cards, and Michael thumbed up his cards again. Ari saw that he held a queen-pair, clubs and spades. The flop afforded no additional help, eight of clubs, three of diamonds, ten of spades. It was a decent hand, but she had no idea what Shevchenko held, if he had a pair of aces or kings, for example, that would beat Michael’s hand. 

“How much you have?” Shevchenko asked.

Michael picked up a stack of chips and released each one to count. “I got three hundred. You?”

“Fifty.”

Michael chuckled. “If I raise, you’ll have to go all-in to stay in play.”

Ari mumbled something unintelligible, on purpose.

Michael turned his head back. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart. It’s too noisy in here.”

She leaned in and held her cupped hands to either side of his ear; the ambient noise and distance from the Russians were enough to keep her hushed tones to themselves.

“He’s an assassin who’s going to kill you if you clean him out,” she whispered. She couldn’t text these details in the chance either of their phones was intercepted by any hostile party. There were too many risks, which is why she had to deliver the message in some discreet manner. “They’re laundering dirty mob money. He’s going to turn your balls into mince meat if you—”

“Sure, sweet cheeks,” Michael said loudly, turning his attention back to the poker table. “You can give me a neck rub. I’m not ticklish there.” He threw a few more chips into the pot.

Ari cupped his chin in one hand and placed the other on top of his head and resisted the urge to snap his neck herself. Why was he still being so stubborn? She gingerly rotated his head both ways to loosen up the muscles in his neck. Then, she grazed her hands to his nape, relishing the warmth of his bare skin after she had stroked him through his clothes. She shifted the weight on her feet and then felt the hardness of the five-inch micro 9mm she kept between her thighs.

The dealer revealed the turn, the queen of diamonds. Ari held her breath. Now Michael had a three-of-a-kind—a very good hand in most cases. The Russian stared at the pile of chips at the centre of the table, which Ari guessed to be close to a million dollars. Shevchenko had a stoic look on his face, which even she found hard to read, but she knew what he was capable of.

After a gruelling minute of waiting—and Ari was pretty sure she was pinching Michael violently in anxiety—Shevchenko pushed the remainder of his chips forward.

“All in,” Shevchenko said under his breath, but somehow, those words pierced Ari’s ears over the commotion.

Michael paused for a beat. “All in.”

 _No no no! What are you doing?_ Ari squeezed Michael’s shoulders in dread. What else could she do to get her point through his thick head? She leaned forward, pressing the front of her body against Michael’s back, so she could conceal her movement from the casino’s surveillance cameras. She started tracing letters on his nape with her thumb.

_DONT DIE I NEED U_

The dealer laid the river, the final card—the queen of hearts.

Michael had all four queens. It could be beaten with a straight at the very least, but even while considering all community cards, there was no way Shevchenko could beat that hand with any two-card combination he may possess. 

All Michael had to do was reveal his cards; and the pot, which had all of Shevchenko’s money, was his.

All Ari could do was helplessly continue with miming the massage. She felt the weight of her pistol strain her right leg. She loosened her grip on Michael in the possible scenario she had to use it.

Michael peeled up his cards with a disgusted look. “You don’t want this chickie anywhere near you. She’s bad luck.” He threw his cards face down to the dealer. “I’m out. Good game.” He rose to his feet and walked over to the Russians to shake their hands, and then made his way to the exit.

Ari followed Michael’s retreating figure with her gaze for a while before walking over to the Russians. “You still want that massage, mister?”

Shevchenko took a step backwards from Ari. “No more. I don’t need bad luck.” He picked up a $100 chip from his pile and flicked it at her. “He forgot to tip.”

“He didn’t have anything left to tip,” Ilia pointed out.

Ari made her exit through the side door she came in through. With a light hand, she slipped the chip into the security guard’s pocket to let him discover later. She tried to predict where Michael would head off to, and she took another door down the corridor to exit to the third floor’s lobby. 

Michael heard the clack of her high heels on the marble floor from behind him. “Well, now I gotta wash my hands for real because there’s someone else in here.” He turned around from the urinal and saw a stern-looking Agent Luna, with her hands on her hips, inside the men’s room with him.

“Casino knows a blonde followed you in here, but they don’t have eyes in here,” Ari said. She ripped off the name tag and discarded it in the trash. She then locked the door behind her and checked her watch. “That means we got like, what, four minutes in here?”

He scoffed as he walked over to the faucet to wash his hands. “You want me to go for the over, or the under?”

“Twenty seconds.” She climbed up onto the counter next to him and looked down into the sink. “I mean, wash your damn hands for twenty seconds.”

He rolled his eyes and complied anyway, counting to twenty out loud, and hastily drying his hands with a paper towel. With a flourish, he threw the used towel into the waste can a few feet away from him and then stepped sideways to collect Ari into his arms. Her bare back tingled at the coolness of his damp hands, and she lay her arms on his shoulders to stop herself from shuddering. She gazed into his eyes closing in on hers and—

“Fuck, your contact lenses,” she gasped.

He reached into his pocket and showed her the white plastic case. “In here. Wasn’t going to treat your colleagues to the show for free.” This time, he darted quicker before she had the chance to distract herself any more. He pressed his lips to hers for a deep, heady kiss that sucked the oxygen all out of her and brought her back to life all at once.

She felt the heat rising through her core, making her spine curl her plush chest into the protective firmness of his. That sweet, busy tongue of his, probing and teasing inside her, all smoothness and precision, would be the death of her.

“Wait.” She hastily pulled away from him. “That’s enough. Just give me a hickey and we’re done. We just gotta make it look like we actually screwed each other in here to the attendants right outside.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “I thought we really were going….” He sank his face and placed his mouth on her collarbone.

“You were right in the midst of a Russian mob’s money laundering operation,” she said. “I thought you were going to be toast.” She hissed and caressed his nape as he nipped and sucked at the delicate skin.

“Yeah, about that….” His lips trailed down to the soft mounds that were the tops of her breasts. “I was never in any danger. Any money I won tonight was going back to them. I was helping them.”

It was like she heard the record scratch in her head at that instant. With as mighty a heave she could manage, she pushed him away by the shoulders, which sent him back a couple of steps.

“Can you say that again?” Her voice was small and quiet, but it was out of seething rage. Her arms were tensed and gripping the counter on either side of her. “Because I thought I just heard you admit you helped out in a mob money laundering scheme.”

His eyes widened at her. “Well, you left me with no choice.”

“Wait, whoa, what?!”

“You expected me to use my own money to get to high roller status. Are you nuts? I’m mortgaged up to my eyeballs. Officially.” He rolled his eyes as he made air quote gestures. “I have to be, for the books. Anyway, I did spend a bit, but I didn’t want to bleed anymore. So I applied for a line of credit at the casino. And then Shiv comes up to me while I was waiting and starts chatting. I mention I’m a movie producer and that I worked on _Meltdown_. Well. Turns out _Meltdown_ just got released dubbed in Russian, and it’s a fucking hit in the Motherland. They think it’s the greatest movie ever made! And then Shiv and Ilia start throwing quotes at me in Russian, and of course, I don’t understand any of them at all. Ilia’s a fucking riot, by the way, and—” 

“Michael,” Ari interrupted, “how does any of this figure in how you got in contact with mob money?”

“I was getting there. I told the Russians I just started playing for fun, so they invited me to their table instead. The chips were waiting for me in a satchel in the limo. I thought the point was just to spend big to get the Cardinal's attention, right? Or maybe she would notice that I would be so gullible to get sucked into a mob laundering operation. I get to cover that possibility too. …I thought I’d improvise because the opportunity was right there. You know, kind of like Jimmy Boston’s secret agent character and his crazy schemes in his movies….”

“This isn’t some fucking Vinewood movie fantasy script,” Ari snapped. “This is real life. It’s my job, and I’m already walking a tightrope. The last thing I need is a federal crime to happen on my watch. Why did you not even tell me this was happening?”

Michael gestured his hand at her. “Because I knew you would react this way. I was hoping you’d stay out of the whole deal with the mob, do your own thing with Vitale tonight. You know…leave the crime to the criminals. Now that you say it like that…it was a huge mistake. I’m sorry, okay? I certainly didn’t count on you going up there and getting involved.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s _my case_. How could I not get myself involved? I certainly couldn’t leave you in there with a known assassin—”

“Why?” he asked quickly. “Why not, Agent? Anything to do with why you’re walking a tightrope?”

She shook her head, her lips pressed in a straight line. “That’s totally irrelevant.” 

“Now you see how hard it is to work with someone when they’re not being completely honest?” he huffed.

That set off a spark in her head, causing her to get to her feet and regard him with an icy cold glare. “You don’t have the right to say that to me, when you cheated the system as a career criminal who stole and murdered for personal gain and managed to get away with it scot-free. All because you’re a fucking white male who knew and paid off the right people.”

“Now, that’s a fucking low blow,” Michael uttered in a low growl.

“How so? Am I lying? Those are the fucking facts,” she spat. 

He chuckled sardonically. “I was wondering how you really thought or felt about me. Since we met? This past week? If what you meant what you’d told me at the hotel when you brought me in. Turns out, you’re just as willing to manipulate and cheat, except I don’t do so under the veil of denial. Now I finally know what’s behind that mask.”

She glared at him while her phone rang for a few beats. She answered it, her chest still heaving with rage. “Luna.”

“I have my eyes on a parcel addressed to you, over on the slot machines at the east side of the ground floor,” Royce said on the other line. “Shall I collect it for you? Where are you?”

“I’m on the way. I’ll collect it myself,” Ari replied, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“I’m going to stay back here and keep playing, in case there are any penalties upon collection,” Royce said.

“That’s not necessary. Goodbye,” she said as she hung up.

“You really have a boner for control, don’t you?” Michael said with a hint of bitterness as she walked towards the men’s room door.

“If I want things done right, I have to do it myself. Just like what transpired tonight, people will always, always disappoint me.” Ari paused as she stood in the doorway. “Good night, Michael. Enjoy that hotel room comp with your whores.”

Moments later, Ari started feeding some bills to a slot machine next to Royce Taggart. 

“What’s the status on the parcel?” she murmured. She glanced over the top of the machines to take a peek at Vinnie Vitale, a short, skinny mostly bald man, who was playing at the row in front of them, with his back turned to their direction.

Royce looked over to the direction of the familiar voice. He looked at Ari’s blonde wig in surprise, recognized her, studied her dress, and then his glance lingered on the love bite on her bare décolletage. She reflexively moved her hand atop her collarbone when she felt his gaze.

“I did some cursory inspection, and I suspect it may be packed with contraband. Open with caution. …Is everything okay?” Royce asked. “You look…distracted.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “You would never ask 14 if he was distracted.”

Royce paused. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Ari sighed as she punched the spin button for the third time, without any payout. “I swear I never have any luck at gambling on these things. Even if it’s supposed to be rigged to pay you out every once in a while to keep you playing for that next hit of dopamine. Somehow, I lose every time.”

Royce shrugged. “Maybe you lose at the game because you always believe you will.”

She eyed her colleague with a curious look, as it was the first time she’d heard something as profound from him. Or maybe she just never bothered to notice it until now. She glanced once again at Vitale. “I’m going in. I got some credits left here. You can keep playing.”

“Luna. I think I should go in with you.”

She thought for a moment. “Just stand back,” she finally said. “He might feel threatened if he’s outnumbered or faced with another male.”

“You should take my jacket to cover that up then.” Royce tilted his chin towards the mark Michael had left on her skin, and started peeling off his jacket.

“That’s not ne—” Ari immediately started, but now it seemed like an inviting idea since she had been feeling chilly for a while now, and her coat was all the way back in the truck. “Thank you,” she said as she slipped the jacket over her shoulders.

Ari slowly walked over the few yards to the adjacent row of machines. She took a seat at the slot machine next to the one Vitale was playing at, but turned sideways to face him. It was best for him to see that she was on the same level as he, rather than have her tower over him, after she had taken her colleague’s warnings to heart.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vitale,” she said in as gentle a voice as she could. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Vitale turned on his seat to face her, and she was able to confirm Royce’s assessment that he was hopped up on some drugs—cocaine, most likely—to keep up the all-night gambling bender. In that moment, she felt a pang of danger, even more than when she was upstairs with the Russian mobsters. She moved her hand to the hem of her dress, just resting above her gun, which was the last thing she wanted to resort to.

“You’re not going to get any of my winnings, you filthy whore,” Vitale snarled. 

With a brisk movement, that came as a surprise from a man of his age and stature, Vitale lunged forward and pushed her by the shoulders into the slot machine adjacent to her, slamming her head hard into the metal box. Ari felt the dull force and gruelling pain ring at the point of impact as she crumpled to the floor in agony. She helplessly watched Vitale scramble to his feet and run down the aisles.

Three nearby casino security guards who witnessed the commotion sprang to action from their posts. Two chased after Vitale and pinned him down, while one approached Ari at the same time Royce did.

“Hey. Hey, Luna. Talk to me. Are you okay?” Royce asked, kneeling down while he grabbed Ari by the shoulders. “You’re still conscious, at least. Thank god.”

“Are you all right, miss?” The security guard asked, crouching down on the floor. “Do you know this man?”

“I know her; she’s my girlfriend,” Royce said, annoyed. “Do you not see she’s wearing my jacket, you idiot?”

Through the pain that was still rattling her head, Ari feebly managed a nod and a dismissive wave to the guard. “I know him. It’s okay. Thank you.”

The guard nodded. “We can call the cops over, and—”

“No cops,” Ari and Royce said quickly.

“It was just a misunderstanding. She mistook him for an estranged uncle,” Royce said. 

“You sure she wasn’t soliciting the dude?” the guard asked.

“I just said she was my girlfriend,” Royce growled. “If you’re gonna keep insinuating my girlfriend’s a hooker, I’m gonna sic the border patrol on you, your mama and papa, and all twenty of your brothers and sisters to haul your asses back to the piss-poor drug-cartel-controlled country where you belong.”

The guard rolled his eyes and walked off.

Royce turned to Ari. “I’m taking you to a hospital.”

“No hospital, no need,” Ari grumbled. “I’m fine.” She tried pulling her legs to get her feet onto the floor, but as she unsteadily lay a stiletto heel on the floor, her right ankle gave way and bent outwards. It was just a stinger, not as painful as her head, but it was still annoying. “Fuck.” She gingerly tried to get herself in a squatting position so she could begin to stand up.

“Hey, hey, no. Stop it. Steady. Don’t force yourself to get up on your own.” Royce held up his hand with two fingers up. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ari squinted, trying to focus on the image in front of her. “Four.”

“Where are you right now?”

Ari strained to concentrate. “I…I don’t know. I can’t think. My head is throbbing.”

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” Royce repeated, but this time, his voice was firmer. “Are you ready to get up? Hold onto me.”

“I’m fine. I can get up on my own.” With that, Ari quickly raised herself in a standing position. In the next second, her surroundings started to fade in and out, both in sight and sound.

“Luna. You’re teetering.” Royce reached out and held her arm to try to steady her.

Ari shook her arm free from his grasp and tried to take a few steps forward, trying to see past the stars bursting in front of her. As she tried to walk away from him, she struggled to keep her eyes open as the lighting inside the casino started getting darker, it seemed. Her eyes were wide open, she knew for sure, but she could only see pitch black all around. The din that had previously been bothering her all night was nothing but a faint, constant, high-pitched noise. “I’m sleepy,” she knew she said, but she failed to hear the sound of her own voice. She took another step forward, and then another, but her feet never met the ground. Every movement was physically tiring; every mental process, an endeavour. And then there was the issue of her head, akin to a bass drum beater thumping against the inside of her skull in perpetuity. She knew there was only one way to free herself from this all this drudgery and fatigue, and that was to float. She floated, floated, and floated, until she no longer could; and only then did she find beautiful peace.


	8. Take Me Home

As she groggily opened her eyes from the hospital bed, Ari prayed for the mercy of the blow to have rendered her amnesiac; but as her luck would have it, she still remembered every single detail from the past night.

She remembered regaining consciousness with her head floating a couple of feet above the casino floor, with only Royce’s strong arms suspending her by the shoulders for the brief moment she was out. She’d told Royce to call her a cab to the hospital instead so he could stay and take care of Vitale, to which he’d replied, “Nonsense. You’ll just go straight home,” which he’d been right about. This was why it was so hard to date fellow intelligence officers—fucking mind-readers. And he’d added, “Don’t be a fucking martyr, Luna. Vitale can wait.” 

She then had to hold onto his shoulders for support as they walked to his car. She recalled him pulling into the Mount Zonah Medical Center’s parking lot and him looking down at her lap and asking, “Can you take out your holster?” When she’d fumbled for a few minutes doing so, she’d felt his fingers hike up her skirt and brush her thigh to remove the buckles that held the holster in place. He then unloaded the gun and stashed it in his glove compartment. Ari knew she was in no condition to handle a loaded firearm, so she was happy to let him do it. Not wanting to feel completely idle, that was when she had taken off her wig.

It was Royce who had recounted the incident and Ari’s symptoms to the triage nurse in the emergency room while she was being examined. He had been the one who filled out her forms because he happened to be there with her.

“Emergency contact?” Royce had asked.

She had hesitated before she said, “Myself.” It was her little trick whenever she was asked for that particular detail.

He’d rolled his eyes. “Okay, no. I’m putting my contact details here.”

She’d gulped. “Taggart. No. I can’t have you do that.” She’d tried leaning forward from her bed to try and grab the clipboard from him, but a shooting pain in her head had stopped her from doing so.

Ari had begged for him to go home and leave her alone in the emergency room. He had only relented when he flagged down a nurse who’d told them that the wait until a doctor could examine her would be up to eight hours.

After her tests and CT scan were completed, the diagnosis was a possible concussion. The piss icing on a shit cake of an evening.

She could not believe she cocked up so spectacularly on such a simple task. She tried to reason failing to appropriately counter Vitale’s attack as a way to keep up her appearance as a poor defenceless woman and therefore keep her cover. Only that backfired too and caused a bit of a scene in the casino, with a few onlookers glancing and gathering around. Royce, whom Ari always grudgingly respected as a consummate professional even if he could be a major asshole, did everything right to mitigate the damage on the scene.

Ah, Royce. At least she got to return his jacket before he left, after she’d changed into a hospital gown. Now Ari owed him big time for his help, and it made her head hurt. It was a lot easier to deal with him when he was simply mean to her. Tonight, he was unusually civil, as if he’d sniffed out that she found out about his secret. She’d long suspected his antagonism towards her was because she was the only person in his orbit who wouldn’t fawn over him, more so that she was a female who wouldn’t sleep with him. She wondered if what Karen had said was true, about him being in love with her. Eventually, Ari dismissed it as a result of her indifferent attitude towards him.

You only want what you can’t have. The thrill of forbidden fruit.

Which finally brought her to Michael. She tasted the acrid bile shooting up her throat at the thought of their fight. She entertained the thought of him walking out of the operation entirely, and she’d be down a unique asset. She wasn’t one to give up on a mission, not when there was a simple solution, so she still hoped she could salvage their professional relationship by talking it out and making sure he was still on board.

That other part of their relationship, she wasn’t so sure. Just like with Royce, it would be easier if the answer was in black and white, just like what she had with Nic.

Ari’s train of thought was mercifully interrupted when her doctor, an affable African-American woman with waist-length cornrows, entered the room and regarded her with a smile. “Oh good, you’re awake. My name is Kim. How are you?” The ID attached to the front of her blue and pink polka dot scrubs identified her as Dr. Kimberly Walker. “Ariadne. That’s such a beautiful name.”

Ari forced a smile. “Thank you. I feel all right. Just a little sleepy. I think I’ve been sleeping too much.”

“Sleep is good. It will help you heal,” Dr. Walker said. “How’s your head feeling?”

“Still hurts. I can’t tell if it’s hurting from the inside or out.”

“You can take some acetaminophen to deal with the pain. The good news is that you escaped without any fractures or internal bleeding. You’re pretty lucky you got hit pretty mild, in relative terms, but we’re just going to proceed as if this were a concussion, to be on the safe side.”

Ari frowned. “I fainted though.”

“Right…but it says in your notes, you didn’t lose consciousness upon impact, but after. It sounds more like neurocardiogenic or vasovagal syncope. Your blood pressure and heart rate dropped real fast. It might have been when you tried to get up from the floor so quickly, or it might have been emotional distress.”

Emotional distress? She really was getting soft. “How long do I have to stay here?” Ari asked.

“You can stay here in the hospital for two days where you’ll remain under observation. Or if you live with a roommate or a loved one who can constantly check up on you, you’re free to go home today and rest. They’ll need to come in here when you’re discharged so we can provide them with your after-care instructions,” Dr. Walker said.

Two days away from work was an eternity. Getting out of the hospital today was the option Ari honed in on so she could settle matters with Vitale and Michael right away. There was no roommate or loved one, but the good doctor didn’t need to know that. Ari planned on having Karen coming over, telling the doctor she’d be in charge of Ari’s after-care, and after Ari got home, Karen could simply go on with the rest of her life, unburdened. 

“I can go home. I have someone who can look after me,” Ari lied.

“If that’s your emergency contact, I can have a nurse contact them for you,” Dr. Walker offered.

Royce Taggart? Hell to the no. “No…that’s okay. I can call them myself.” She needed a change of clothes too. After the doctor had given Ari another examination to make sure she was ready to be discharged, Ari slowly leaned over to the side table and found her phone there, somehow fully charged. She suddenly remembered Royce had taken it and charmed his way at the nurse’s station, with the help of a bunch of snacks and drinks he’d bought at the vending machines—free food was one of the easiest ways to curry favour with other people. She dismissed the missed calls and messages from him and started typing a message for Karen. 

_Hey, sorry to bother you. Am at Mount Zonah. Once you’re free, you mind bringing the go bag from the trunk of my car? You can figure it out. It’s parked at my apartment building. Thanks._

Virtually as soon as she sent the message, the reply came in an instant.

_Right away._

She immediately set the phone aside as the bright light from the screen strained her eyes. A go bag was part of an intelligence officer’s protocol, and she had a few stashes. Her main one in her closet was a heavy-duty backpack that included cash, weapons, and agency-issued passports with false names; while the one in her car was a pared down version with a change of clothes and shoes, a blanket, boxed water, and shelf-stable snacks. Karen would know her car was an old Sentinel XS, and an IAA officer had easy access to a lock pick set. With nothing else to do, Ari turned her attention to the chicken salad sandwich on the lunch tray left by her bedside. She hated cold food, but having had barely anything to eat for over twelve hours, it hit the spot.

She kept her eyes closed but never got to sleep. She sensed a presence enter the room some thirty minutes later, thinking it was too soon for Karen to arrive with her things. She awoke with a start when she realized it was Michael who had entered the room, standing near the foot of the bed.

Ari silently scolded herself when her initial two thoughts were _He looks hot in that leather jacket_ and _Shit, my make-up must be a mess_. She grabbed a wet wipe and started rubbing her face, even if she knew it would be awful for her skin.

“Between my family, my best friend, my old therapist, and Steve Haines, I thought I’d already heard every possible shitty thing about me,” Michael said.

“Did you come all the way to the hospital to say that to my face?” she asked incredulously. “I’m in a hospital bed, and you’re making this about y—”

He held up a pastel pink duffle bag and placed it on the chair beside the bed.

She stared at him in confusion. “How did you…. Did Karen tell you to come here?”

Michael mirrored her confused look. “Huh? You did.”

“What?! I did not.”

He held up his phone to her, stepping in closer. “Pretty sure it was you who asked me to come. Here. That’s you. Check your own phone.”

She did, and to her horror, she confirmed his assertion. _Michael_ was visually close to _Michelle_ , which was how she stored Karen’s number in her phone as a dumb joke, even after all these years. She wanted to dunk her head in a bucket of lye and just die.

“Fuck,” she groaned, leaning back in the bed. “I’d meant to send that message to Karen, not you.”

Michael had been relieved when he received Ari’s message, thinking it was an olive branch after the tumultuous way they left each other the previous night. He quickly became concerned when he realized she was in the hospital, and he moved quickly. Her admission that she hadn’t meant to ask him for help made him feel dejected and useless once again. But since he was with her now, the air between them had to be cleared, and he didn’t mind doing it.

“I’m sorry about last night. I said some awful things to you.” He walked over to the chair and put her pink bag on his lap as he sat down. Without all her make-up and with her hair mussed up, she looked androgynous, almost like a teenage boy. He started questioning his own sexual orientation, how he still found her attractive in spite of that observation.

“So did I,” she said.

“I know. And they hurt. Because they came from you.”

Before she knew it, her hand was being squeezed by both of his. She was surprised by how smooth and soft his hands felt—she’d expected his hands to be rough and callused, after all that she knew about him. They had similar hands, with long, lithe fingers; broad, squarish palms, and thick, jutting veins; except his were naturally upscaled versions of hers. They sat together in silence for a few minutes, intently watching their caressing hands have a life of their own; but it served more to quell any awkwardness, rather than enhance it. The glint of his wedding ring came and went.

“What happened?” he asked softly, snapping himself from their collective trance.

“Got my head bashed by a wayward _zio_.” She sighed. 

“It’s my fault. I wasn’t there for you,” he rued. “I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

She shook her head and was about to speak, but a light knock from the doorway stole their attention.

“Hello.” It was Dr. Walker once again. She flashed a smile at Michael. “Are you the one who’s going to be taking care of Ariadne at home?”

“No,” Ari said instantly in a panic, at the same time Michael leapt to his feet to shake the doctor’s hand and said, “Yes. I’m Mikey.”

“Yes. Yes, he is.” Ari figured she might as well say yes. The person may be different, but her intended plan wasn’t going to change.

Dr. Walker handed him some stapled printouts. “Ariadne’s suffered a likely concussion, and she needs to be closely monitored over the next couple of days. That means she must stay home and rest. These are her after-care instructions in more detail, what she can and can’t do while she recovers, and how she can gradually resume her normal routine, which ought to take about one to two weeks.”

“I know a thing or two about concussions,” Michael said in a light tone. “I was an all-state high school quarterback. Had my fair share of helmet hits. Every defensive lineman was out for me. I was that good.”

Ari swore she rolled her eyes so hard she saw the back of her head. The doctor completed the discharge procedure and handed him the documentation shortly thereafter, saying Ari was free to leave. Michael continued to read through the printouts after the doctor had left.

“I’ll just take a cab home,” Ari said. “Thanks for bringing my stuff. You don’t actually have to do any of…that.”

He glanced up from the papers and shot her a dangerous glare. “I’ll have none of your bullshit.” He maintained his light tone even if the look on his face didn’t match it. “You’re coming home with me.” He waved the papers in his hand. “This is some serious shit. You heard the doctor—you need to be closely monitored. You’re not supposed to be alone over the next few days.”

“I feel fine. Really,” she argued. “That’s why I get to go home. I’m going to chill and rest there. I’ll be fine.”

Michael started reading from the list, “Symptoms of a concussion range from headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to light or noise, loss of consciousness, personality changes, confusion, vision problems, memory problems, nausea, irritability, et cetera.… …Dietary restrictions are…. No caffeine. No alcohol. Avoid or limit dairy, red meat, spicy, salty, sugary, or oily food….”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious? What the hell can I even have? Oh my god, just kill me already.”

“…Avoid excessive physical, mental, and sensory stimuli, like bright lights or loud noises. Limit television, mobile phone, computer, and video game use. Avoid demanding cognitive activities like heavy reading, work-related duties, or driving. No sports or physically demanding activities that will increase heart rate or breathing.…”

“That’s so boring,” she groaned. “What am I even allowed to do?”

He shrugged. “Sleep?”

“Can I masturbate, doctor?” she said sarcastically.

He nearly choked on his breath as she said that. He was far from prudish or sexually inexperienced, of course. But he knew his wife would pleasure herself often, and she’d stop as soon he’d walk in on her privacy. He’d insist it wasn’t like he was expecting intercourse, but he just hoped she wouldn’t shut him out like she always did. It was something he’d wished she could share with him, and she would berate him and refuse constantly. It since conditioned him with a feeling of shame on the issue.

But now this little firecracker in front of him was refreshingly blunt about it. He noticed a wry smile on Ari’s face when she’d spotted his split-second reaction. He had to give her that.

“I’m going to get dressed.” Ari gingerly leaned forward to minimize the coming headache as she got to her feet. She took her go bag and headed into the bathroom.

Her phone started vibrating on the table, and Michael took a peek at the caller. It was Royce Taggart. At that moment, all the dots immediately connected in Michael’s mind, and he felt a surge of feverish heat crawl up his neck. He willed the phone to stop buzzing.

It did for a few seconds, until it flashed back up again. He wasn’t sure what was taking over him as he reached out and answered it. “Luna can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?”

“Who the hell is this?” Royce demanded, and then he realized, “De Santa? Where is she? Where are you?”

“I’m visiting her at the hospital. Relax. She’s fine.”

“Hey, this is all _your_ fault, you fat fuck. You put her in there. If it wasn’t for me—”

Ari emerged from the bathroom, and Michael said into the phone, “No, I don’t need my air ducts cleaned. Goodbye,” and hung up. He turned to her and frowned. “I hate cold callers. …You ready to go?”

As they got into his Tailgater, she said, “Hey, you mind popping by my apartment first? I want to get a few more things and take a shower.”

He had a feeling she would ask for this, so he said, “Of course, we could do that. You can take a shower at my place too. I also have a tub. If you ever wanna use the hot tub, I can get out the patio heater—”

“How did you know where I live? And how did you get into my car? How did you even know my car?”

“Do you really have to ask me those questions? You know my file,” he said playfully. He switched to a more serious tone. “Hey, I wouldn’t have done any of that if I didn’t think that you personally asked me to do it.”

She visibly relaxed at his response. Her calmness only lasted until she had to answer her buzzing phone. “Hey, thanks for last night. …Doctor said I was fine to take a cab home, so I did. …Yes, I plan to come in tomorrow. …Okay, fine, I’ll work from home. ….No, please, I want to. …No, you don’t have to. I got plenty of food at home; I’m fine. …Bye.” 

“What’s the deal between you and Agent Hitler Youth?” Michael asked, unable to resist.

“Nothing,” Ari said. 

“It don’t sound like nothing.”

“He can be an asshole, sure, but he’s not an idiot, and he’s competent. As long as he listens to me and gets the job done, I can tolerate him.”

Because this was Los Santos, everywhere was 20 minutes away. Once Ari got back to her apartment, she had no intention of returning to his car, hoping he’d grow tired of waiting and drive home. “I’m just going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back,” she said when he pulled up in front of her apartment building.

“I should go up with you.” He pushed the engine switch off. “You might faint or something.”

“That’s not nece—”

“Ari,” he growled in a low voice.

It would have been much easier if he stayed in the car, but she was determined to go through with her plan to spend the night on her own in her own home. She reluctantly led him into her third floor apartment on Bridge Street.

“By the way, I know you want to ditch me, but that’s not going to happen,” he called to Ari while she retreated to her bedroom. Michael paced his way through the apartment, which was compact enough that he got to circle around the living and dining areas together with the kitchen in a dozen strides. He recognized a certain handwritten sentence in French on a note stuck on the refrigerator door before opening it. Inside, he found merely a pitcher of filtered water, half a dozen eggs, two bottles of white wine, a half-eaten meal from a food court stand, and a quart of chocolate peanut butter ice cream in the freezer. “I’m going to stay here for as long it takes, even if I have to stay the whole two days here with you.” He walked over to the window over the couch and saw the view of the Tataviam Mountains.

She emerged at the hallway. “What if I call the cops?” she asked.

“Be reasonable. Come on. Do you really want to take a chance staying on your own when you’re supposed to be under observation? What if you do faint, collapse, and hemorrhage out your brain here? Who’s gonna call you an ambulance?” He glanced at his luxury watch. “You hungry? Wanna get some tacos?”

She stood silently as she pondered his proposal. She hated to admit it out loud, but his points were perfectly valid. Also, tacos. Finally, she said, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

He shrugged. “I got all the time. My boss didn’t show up for work today. Think she might not show up for the next two days. Lazy bitch.”

She chuckled mildly. “What about your wife? What if she shows up?”

Michael waved his hand. “She won’t kill you. You can probably kill her first. You might even be doing me a favour.”

She felt horrible that she wanted to laugh at that. His irreverent sense of humour had always been up her alley. She managed to keep a straight face and tone, saying, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I was joking. She’s not going to show. And if she does, I can handle it. Don’t you worry about her.”

She leaned against the wall behind her and crossed her arms across her chest. “Are you just doing this to make it up to me after the fact you laundered money for the Russian mob?”

“No,” he said firmly, “I’m doing this because you need it. And because I want to.”

* * *

“Good morning,” Michael said brightly to the new arrival at the kitchen. “Sleep well last night?”

Ari gave him the finger as she took a seat.

“Ah, there’s the irritability.”

Much to her chagrin, he took the after-care instructions very seriously, including waking her up every two hours on her first night of sleep at home since her concussion. He’d walk to the opposite end of the hall, where the guest room was, to rouse her awake to make sure she was still conscious. She’d wanted him to suggest for her to stay in his bed so the chore was easier for them both, but he likely hadn’t because his son was also home that night.

“Why are you so peppy when we had the same sleep pattern?” she grumbled.

“You don’t get or need as much sleep at my age. I’ve been up since six. …Eva, _dale la comida_.”

“ _Muchas gracias_ , Eva,” Ari said as the maid placed a tray of oatmeal, blueberries, and fresh orange juice in front of her. It wasn’t bad, but she really wished she was having a breakfast burrito instead. And the hot coffee Michael was drinking smelled so good.

“You mind if I put on some music?” he asked.

She shook her head, and he operated the docked music player on the kitchen counter, keeping the volume low not to disturb her, but audible enough to be clear. Soft, soulful horns filled the dining area.

“‘Let’s Stay Together.’ Al Green. This is possibly my favourite song of all time,” he sighed. “I’ve heard it a million times, but it still gets me with each listen. I hate to sound like a cliché, but, like everyone else, I wanted this played at my wedding.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“My actual fucking marriage.”

She did laugh at that.

He swore she was the only person on earth who did appreciate his wisecracks. Michael continued, “My best man wasn’t too crazy about the song choice. Or at least I thought it was the song he was protesting. He started playing ‘Master of Puppets’ before I tackled him, but by then, he’d crushed the Al Green CD with his heel to pieces. …I don’t know, Metallica might have been a more apt choice. I’m just lucky he didn’t play ‘Harvester of Sorrow’….” 

He stopped speaking to silently admire the way her unadorned face lit up the gloomy winter morning with her genuine, uncontrollable laughter. There was nothing else more beautiful. He had been perplexed as to why she felt the need to wear make-up—until he realized it was a layer to hide behind.

He knew in his gut, in his _heart_ , that a true, sincere side of Ariadne Luna reached out to him that first night; the one full of passion, empathy, and stories, the one that craved for connection. He never saw it again, until last night’s stunt at the poker table and for a regrettably fleeting moment in the men’s room. She crafted an image of herself that was self-assured and independent. That was undoubtedly part of her true self as well, the version she wanted everyone else to see.

There was no one else who could let her see that buried side of her but herself. But he was going to have to try to shine the light in the shadows.

He’d never had to work so hard for a woman before. He was used to them falling at his feet, even more so since he came into plenty of money. He couldn’t explain to himself why he was only starting now, and why with her.

She suggested that she could cook a few meals, since it was one of the few activities she could do, and they headed to what he complained was an unnecessarily hipster grocery. During the car ride, sometime between a debate on whether Peter Gabriel or Phil Collins had the better solo career, and her chiding him for hating Fleetwood Mac, she mentioned that she played guitar. When they got back home, he dug up an old acoustic guitar he’d forced onto Jimmy to try to get him to be more popular with girls (Jimmy had given up as soon as he learned he had to practice for girls to actually be impressed). While a hearty bolognese sauce was simmering on the stove, she spent the rest of the morning installing a new set of strings they’d gotten along the way, replacing the ones that were either rusty or broken.

“I never knew that thing could sound that good,” Michael said. They were on the living room couch as Ari strummed a few strings. She had tuned the guitar by ear.

“Of course it sounds this good. It’s a Martin D-28. You spent three freaking grand on a guitar.” She plucked a simple arpeggio. “The strings will slack faster than normal since they’re new. You’ll have to retune it—”

“I have no idea how to play it, let alone tune it. No one here uses it. You should have it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

“Keep it. I insist.”

“It’s way too expensive.”

“You should know money doesn’t matter to me by now. Take it.”

“No, Michael, there’s no way—”

“Can you stop being such a cunt every time I try to do something nice?” he growled at her, his voice rising.

She was momentarily stunned by him losing his temper, but she tried to keep her cool, saying in an even tone, “I’m not staying in Los Santos forever. I don’t want to have to deal with it when I leave.”

He was painfully silent for an excruciating minute, until he took a deep breath. He’d figured that was going to be the case, that Los Santos was a mere transitory assignment for her, but it stung to hear her say it out loud. “I don’t care what you do with it when you leave. Sell it, throw it, take it, smash it. It’s yours to decide. I’m just saying, it’s not doing any good rotting in this house. You know how to play it. You might as well make it sing for as long as you’re here.”

She leaned back in the couch and sat silently, still cradling the guitar in her lap. They both knew they weren’t just talking about the instrument.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Ari held out the guitar to him. “Do you want me to teach you?”

* * *

He’d managed to learn all three chords of Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” in the afternoon, and by the time she’d gotten sick of him playing the song on repeat for him to strum along to, she reclaimed the guitar to play some Fleetwood Mac to him.

“They’re overrated, overplayed, bland, tuneless, pop-rock retreads,” he said.

“No! I won’t tolerate such blasphemy.” She put her hands to her ears.

He tilted his chin up towards her. “Try to make me change my mind.”

She played and sang “Gold Dust Woman” in a clear, throaty mezzo-soprano that, in his opinion, suited the sentiment even better than the original.

“That was beautiful,” he breathed once she’d played the last chord. Michael noticed his son drowsily walking in the hall on his way to the kitchen. “Good morning, sunshine,” he called. “There’s spaghetti that…uh….” He turned to Ari and mouthed, “Name?”

“Ari,” she said.

“…Ari made. She’s my…uh…..”

“Assistant,” she offered.

“My assistant at my new company,” Michael finished.

Jimmy glanced at the two of them in the living room and mumbled, “She’s plainer and fatter than your usual girls.”

“James,” Michael snarled sharply, “And you’re wondering why you’re still a virgin?”

“And older,” Jimmy continued, “You’re barely a week into your new job, and you’re already banging your assistant? If she actually is your ‘assistant’.”

“That’s enough. No spaghetti for you.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want some gold-digger's spaghetti anyway.” He left the doorway to continue towards the kitchen.

“Hey!” Michael stood up and started after his son, but Ari grabbed his arm.

“Hey, hey, hey. Let it go,” she said softly.

“I would’ve thought he’d be used to it by now,” he said, but as soon as the words came out his mouth, he winced at the implication. “He’s never had home cooking in his entire life. His mom’s idea of meal planning was takeout and frozen,” he quickly said. “This may very well have been the first time someone’s cooked for me—”

“You can’t be serious?” Ari said in surprise. 

“Yes, and it was worth the hype,” he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “…I thought Jim and I had a good thing going these past few months, you know? I’m going to make him apologize to you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s just standing up for his mother. No apology is going to be sincere. Don’t worry about me.”

Michael gently freed himself from her grasp. “I’m going to have a word with him. He doesn’t know about your concussion and after-care.”

Oh, that’s right. She’d forgotten she was probably concussed. Aside from the pain of the blow to her head, none of the other symptoms had manifested today. It did help that she was following the directives—plus, not using a computer or phone did wonders to forget about her case, even for a few days. She was curious if anyone tried to reach her today. Maybe Royce? 

She went back up to the guest room and checked her phone. There were no new texts or missed calls, which was fortunate, because she started to feel the strain on her eyes from the bright screen. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes to rest.

* * *

She was so exhausted from the broken sleep pattern that she slept right through dinnertime. She sensed some stirring of life outside, and she wanted an excuse to touch that precious guitar again, maybe tighten its strings so they would find their more long-lasting tautness.

Ari made her way back downstairs, and she heard some dialogue off a movie being played in the living room. She peeked from the hallway and saw no sign of Michael but saw the guitar leaning against one end of the couch, the base of its body scratching against the hardwood floor. She inwardly gasped because such a beautiful, expensive piece didn’t deserve such treatment. As she walked through the hallway, she inadvertently stepped on a slippery spot on the floor, causing her already tender ankle to roll outward again as it failed to catch ground. Her left foot had been suspended in the air, and she lost her balance.

She braced her fall with her hands, thankfully avoiding a collision with her head, at least. Her knees scraped against the rug as her lower body’s inertia continued its forward motion until it was spent. She glanced up and saw the edge of the couch and tried to crawl towards it, feeling the burn where her ankle had rolled outward to come into contact with the floor.

“Ari!” Michael’s voice barked from behind, above her. “Shit. What happened?” He didn’t bother to wait for her response as he swooped her up in his arms and carried her onto the couch. 

She lifted her right leg onto the ottoman and grimaced. “Rolled my ankle. Again.” This one felt a lot worse than the most recent one.

He propped a throw pillow under her foot. “Were you seriously going to keep crawling on the floor without calling for help? I’ll be right back.” He turned off the TV and turned on the fireplace in front of her before he ran to the kitchen.

She was prone to rolling her ankles, so she knew she wouldn’t be able to walk at a normal pace or without pain for a few days, which really, really sucked. It usually wasn’t a big deal, but somehow, she felt a ball of emotions curl up her throat, which expelled from her as a choked sob. And then another. And another. The muscles in her cheeks strained, sending tears flowing down her face. She leaned to her left to try to grab a tissue from the coffee table and then felt the inside of her head shatter between her ears. She lay on her side to try to get it to stop.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He returned with an ice pack and a glass of water, which he placed on the coffee table, and a compression wrap that he started to fasten around her foot. 

“I thought it was over. I thought I was better,” she sobbed as she watched the dancing red flames in the fireplace. “I hate feeling so helpless like this.”

He’d finished wrapping her ankle and placed the ice pack on it. Michael then sat next to her and collected her in his arms. She instantly melted into his chest and held him as tightly as she could. She sobbed into his shoulder while his wide body—both firm and soft in places, just the way she liked—pressed into hers, as if he wanted her to release whatever was pent up inside of her. She’d craved for his touch since that first night. Harder, she thought, she wanted him to overwhelm her with all his weight and power, up against the backrest of the couch. Instead, his arms were tightly wrapped around her narrow back, almost painfully, and it would have to do for now. She could sleep like this, right here, as the mix of his natural masculine scent with the faded base notes of his spicy cologne slowly soothed her into a sense of calm. 

As he held her, he wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. Old age, wisdom, and Ludendorff had taught him not to make promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he held her in this manner for as long as she needed. It was only when she said, “Can I have some water, please?” that he carefully pulled himself away.

He produced a bottle of acetaminophen, placing a pill in her palm. She popped the pill and downed all the water. He excused himself to refill her glass.

“I hoped to see you one day with rug burns on your knees, but this isn’t what I had in mind,” he remarked when he returned. To his massive relief, she laughed in response. That was a good sign.

“Sorry for ruining your movie night.” She’d noted the empty glass that held the aroma of whiskey and the stench of a singed Cuban cigar from the ashtray.

He made a dismissive noise. “I’d seen that movie hundreds of times. If anything, you put on a better show,” to which she chuckled sheepishly. 

They sat in silence before he broke it saying, “Jim’s not here tonight. I told him to get out if he refused to be civil. So that’s what he did.”

“Michael, you didn’t—”

“He’s a little bitch. He deserves it,” he huffed.

They were silent for a few seconds until she said, “The guitar. Don’t place it on the floor like that. It’ll get scratched.”

He placed the guitar in its case, and when he returned to her, he took a seat on the side of the ottoman where her feet rested. “How’s the wrap feeling? Pressure okay? Not too tight, I hope.”

“It’s okay,” Ari responded.

He gently picked up her right foot and planted a kiss on the outside of the ankle. “That’ll make it all better. That’s just science.” He picked up the uninjured foot. “I just hope this one isn’t feeling jealous of all the attention.” He started to squeeze and rub the base of her foot with both hands in a continuous upward motion. Oh, was he going to do what she thought….

“That was a weak, lame-ass massage at the poker table, by the way,” he teased, and he held her foot firmly in place as she attempted to kick at him. “So let me show you how it’s done.”

The heat and pressure of his mighty hands tickling the sensitive nerve endings in her foot sent tingling shooting through her body. He rubbed the base of each toe, twisting and popping the surface with his fingers. His hand felt deliciously heavy as he rubbed back and forth on the top of the foot, heating her skin up with friction. He caressed her ankles with a feather-light touch, rousing more nerves deep in her core. She heaved an automatic, contented sigh.

And then, she started feeling something else. Dull, troubling impressions, as if she was stepping repeatedly on a large pebble. She was agitated by the intense discomfort that wasn’t just focused on her foot, but somehow coursed up her leg. On the foot itself, the pressure felt so forceful that she was getting afraid he would crush bone. She felt a chill as the goosebumps on her arm rose.

“Michael,” she started, alarmed by the shift in his intent.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling unless you tell me,” he said under his breath as he saw her wincing.

“It’s fine.”

He pressed harder into a tender spot on the arch, and he felt her reflexively kick out in agony. He defensively gripped her ankle in place.

“Ari,” he snarled dangerously under his breath.

“Okay, okay, fine. It hurts. I don’t like it this way.” She gulped.

He eased off on the pressure slightly, continuing to rub and rotate her left foot to loosen the tension. She knew he couldn’t work the same magic on her injured foot, as the sprain was still raw and needed immobilization, especially after he’d aggravated it just now.

He lifted her foot to his lips and peppered small, soft kisses on the top, sparking a surge of need right in her loins. Even with all her trysts, this was the most erotic thing performed on her without involving anyone’s privates. She wanted him. She wanted him in a bad way ever since he held her a while ago.

She wriggled her leg free and stroked his chest with her foot, sliding downwards until she slipped it under the hem of his shirt. She pressed into his warm, soft belly, letting the bottom of her foot be tickled by the layer of coarse hair that covered it.

“This is the sexiest part of you,” she told him. “I’m something of a chubby chaser.”

“Excuse me?” he said in a mock haughty tone. He grabbed her leg by the shin, making her stop her stroking him with her foot. “Pretty sure I got one or two or three or more body parts that are sexier. And I am not chubby. It’s just my natural body type.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You are. Little bit. But that’s exactly my type. Big and strong and cuddly. Like a hyper macho teddy bear who’s also capable of a stranglehold.”

“You know what ain’t my type? Invalids.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she laughed, and she tried hammering down her heel onto his groin, only to be impeded by both his hands catching it.

He moved on to massaging her tight calf this time. Ari felt her eyelids grow heavy, but it wasn’t because of her head. She let herself succumb to the relaxing massage she was being given. It felt nice not to worry about herself for once, and let someone else do the work. She didn’t want to get used to this, not one bit.

* * *

She’d woken up in her bed in the guest room, tucked under the blanket, with no recollection of how she returned. She really hoped it wasn’t an amnesiac episode from her concussion, but simply Michael carrying her upstairs. As far as she knew, it was just the two of them in the house, wasn’t it? She got up and very slowly padded to his bedroom, trying to get her good foot to bear most of the weight. She’d had far worse ankle sprains before; she’ll live. His door was ajar, and his snoring grew louder as she made her way in.

His bed was far more comfortable than hers, she thought. It was one of those pricey memory foam mattresses that felt like relaxing on a bottomless pit of marshmallows. Ari lay on the empty space beside him and started stroking the tuft of chest hair that peeked out from the top of his shirt’s neckline.

She did this for a while, until his eyes flew open and he seized her arm with both hands, painfully twisting it in a reflexive act of self-defence. Michael turned to her, and the look of panic in his eyes disappeared immediately, and his hands let go. “Ari, what the fuck?”

“I missed your bed, tiger,” she purred. The searing pain he’d inflicted on her arm only heightened her desire. “Come on, let’s fuck. I’m pretty sure you had this in mind when you offered me to stay over.”

“I did not,” Michael lied. The thought did cross his mind, but he wasn’t one to capitalize on an injured and emotionally vulnerable person, if her breakdown earlier that evening was any indication. “You can sleep here if you want. We don’t have to—”

She cut off his words by working her hot, wet mouth onto his, a kiss unabashed in its lust. She pressed her body tightly against him, and his body did its own thing where it just clumsily collided into hers and tried to devour every inch of her through every pore of his skin.

What was a red-blooded gynophilic man to do? Any modicum of logic he had left was telling him he really shouldn’t be taking advantage of her like this, but the sly devil on his shoulder was telling him, _She wants this_. Therefore, he did not do anything to resist, nor did he want to. Was he ever the poster boy for _the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak_. It was a good thing indeed that he was no son of God.

“How’s your head?” He stopped, if only to gasp for air. “And your ankle?”

“I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me,” she said in between kisses on his neck and shoulder.

His brain had no choice but to believe her as all most of the blood in his system was on its way to his cock. But there was just about enough left in reserve for him to roll over on top of her, surprising even himself with a gracefulness that recalled his athletic heyday as the high school heartthrob.

“Why didn’t you just fuck me at the hotel?” she moaned. He’d peeled off her shirt, and he’d obviously noticed that she’d been without a bra around his house since she arrived. Both nipples were being granted an equal amount of attention from his mouth and his knuckles.

“I was pissed,” he grunted as he reluctantly pulled away from sucking her breast, now swollen with her arousal and shiny with his saliva. “I was ready to fuck you at the casino.”

“Well, I didn’t want our first fuck to be in a men’s room,” she exclaimed. “And I knew we were going to fuck one way or another.” Her hands kept pawing frantically at his torso as if she were a newborn kitten angling for its mother. She really, really liked his belly.

All articles of clothing were now scattered on the floor, where they belonged, and the only covering left between either of them was the wrap around her right ankle. His son had a point; she was nothing like the girls he was used to, and she was definitely not a stereotypical Los Santos waif-like, artificially-enhanced bimbo. She simply looked _strong_ with her athletic yet lean physique, like she could actually lift twice her body weight. Yet, there were still the trademarks of her femininity, with her tapered waist and the fleshiness on the parts where a woman would naturally have them. His erection approved. As much as he wanted to see her naked ass too, her injury made that possibility difficult. For tonight, at least.

She wantonly opened herself, all of her, up to him, as he knelt near the edge of the bed. Feel—his basest instinct was to feel her sweetest, softest spot. He longed to see the rest of her painted in that same pretty, private pink; and that was what he sought out to do. With his fingers, to start; he was pretty confident in his game there. His fire burned brighter as his two thick fingers slicked and slipped so readily inside her, probing for that one secret nub within her velvety walls.

“One more,” Ari instructed in a breathy voice, “I can take one more, lover.”

He crammed in a third finger, and, without any warning or buildup, pumped in and out of her at a breakneck pace, the palm of his hand slamming against her clit. She was shouting obscenities at him at the sudden onslaught, and he immediately silenced her by ramming his own tongue into her mouth. She came while he was still kissing her, her noises fading into desperate whimpers as she shuddered beneath him.

Her entire body took on that feverish flush, blood pooling beneath the surface of her skin. But he wanted more. And she needed more. He leaned forward to reach for a condom packet from the bedside drawer, and all the while, she kept running her good foot across his torso and thighs, pricking his own sensitive nerves.

After he’d sheathed himself, he grabbed both her legs and lifted them onto his shoulders, pinning them down with his powerful hands. He was surprised at how pliable they felt, like they were nothing to her. But now they wouldn’t be in his way.

She lifted her hips and rolled herself into a ball, effortlessly pressing her thighs into her chest, so he could lean in and kiss her. He collapsed onto his forearms on either side of her so the rest of his body could just sink into hers. As they kissed and licked and bit and devoured one another, his hard-on bounced and slicked deliciously against her wet mound, and he couldn’t take the torture any longer. Michael pulled his face away from hers so he could carefully guide himself into her. Euphoria washed over him with the sweet release of his penetration, as if endlessly falling into a heavenly cloud. Ari moaned in pleasure at the burden of being so filled and so stretched within. He moved slowly at first, studying her reactions and reflexes with every change in rhythm, angle, or depth.

“Hurry up, tiger, I’m drying up here,” she said sarcastically. 

“Well, excuse me for being concerned about your brain damage,” Michael retorted.

“Just fuck me already; I can take it.”

Oh, she was going to be sorry she asked. He might as well fuck her with the goal of sending her back to the hospital, if not the morgue. He picked up the tempo, deciding on short, fast, piston-like movements; the bedroom echoing with the frantic staccato of skin slapping on skin. Her grunts soon joined in the perverse melody. And then his.

Her hands flew to her clit to lend more friction where she needed it most, and he felt her clamping down on him as she climaxed again, torturing her with waves of pleasure. Inside and out, it was all too much to bear, and Michael’s rhythm started failing him as his own orgasm exploded, finishing inside her with four violent thrusts. 

They remained frozen in their culminating positions for a few beats. Michael admired how engorged her lips and her nether regions had become post-climax, and Ari needed a moment to catch her breath. He’d wondered what it would be like once their sexual tension had been consummated, and it seemed, he dare say…a bit anticlimactic. The sex was nice, for sure—10/10, would come again—but he couldn’t help but feel like there was still something amiss.

What if the problem wasn’t just her?

“I’m going to email HR first thing in the morning,” Michael said. They’d since disconnected and recollected themselves and lay face to face on the bed. “Gonna tell them my boss sexually harassed me.”

Ari shook her head in disapproval. “Your jokes are starting to fall flat, old man.”

“Who said I was joking?” To which he got a playful nipple twist in reply. He chuckled and embraced her, pulling her body into his once again. “Stay,” he whispered in her ear. “Stay a little longer.”

Ari buried her face into his chest and said nothing. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but the idea wasn’t so crazy after all.

* * *

She would really feel it in the morning, Ari knew. The day after an ankle sprain was the worst, the most painful and swollen. But she also really wanted to make biscuits and gravy for breakfast. She’d asked for Eva’s help to set up the ingredients and equipment at the kitchen counter while Michael searched for an old pair of crutches Jimmy once used after breaking his leg in a skateboarding accident.

“Found them!” Michael set the crutches on the side of the kitchen counter, and then started playing some music. The Doobie Brothers’ version of “What a Fool Believes” came on.

Ari’s face lit up as she measured some flour into a bowl. “Oh, I love this song.” Her head bopped to the beat, and she sang along to Michael McDonald’s harmony parts.

Michael smiled, thinking he could watch her all day, but that plan was short-lived. The doorbell started ringing. “Eva? Can you get the door?” When the doorbell kept ringing, Michael sighed. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

After making a quick stop at the study, Michael went to the front door and handed his old friend, Dave Norton, a brown paper bag. The agent had asked Michael to make his payments in cash so that his ex-wife’s lawyers wouldn’t catch wind of it. “Morning, Agent. Care for some biscuits today?”

Dave raised an eyebrow. “Why? Who’s cooking? Definitely not Amanda or Eva.” He peeked inside the house over Michael’s shoulder, heard the singing voice, and his jaw dropped. “Why…why is that woman in your house?”

Michael looked back over his shoulder. “Why? Don’t tell me she’s your ex-wife. Isn’t she a little out of your league, Davey?”

“What does she want from you, Michael?”

“My good looks and my hot body, obviously. What’s up? Do you know her?”

Dave looked at Michael skeptically before continuing, “She’s an IAA agent.”

Michael feigned surprise. “You don’t say.”

“Her name is Ariadne Luna, and…I really can’t imagine what she wants from you. Are you working with her?” Dave asked.

Michael wasn’t sure if he should disclose his arrangement, so he simply said, “No, I met her at a bar last night, and I invited her home. We played Scrabble till the wee hours of morning. How do you know that she’s an IAA agent?”

“Feds are horrible gossips when it comes to one another. Even between agencies. Especially between agencies. But we keep it all in-trade, you know? No written record, nothing online or in texts, all oral history. She’s got a reputation. She started a people’s revolution that overthrew a fascist totalitarian government in Central Asia. She snuck out defecting nuclear scientists from Israel. She…she’s a fucking legend.”

Michael had gotten on Lester’s case over those redacted IAA files, and it was a testament to the IAA’s security that not even Lester’s genius or Michael’s money could get them the non-redacted versions. 

“And then there’s the time when no one knew what she was up to,” Dave continued “Some feared the worst, that she might have been captured or killed, until she resurfaced, shuttling between LS and LC. Even my IAA friends don’t know, or are keeping mum about what happened to her.” Dave studied Michael. “Why would she go home with _you_? Maybe she has total amnesia and doesn’t know her own name, or that she’s a secret agent.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “And I thought I was the one watching too many movies.”

“Anyway, Michael, you just watch yourself. She might con you out of your money or something. She is excellent at her job mainly because she is a master manipulator and people reader. She knows how to press anyone’s buttons. Los Santos seems a bit lightweight given her track record. Has she already spoken to you about being an asset? By the way, please don’t. I can’t stand those IAA jackasses, even if they look like her. I can’t imagine what she wants from you unless it’s to get to Trevor and his extracurriculars or something.”

“No, she hasn’t. And I can’t imagine either. I’m just a big dumb clod, that’s why the only career choices available to me were robbing banks and producing movies.”

Dave waved the paper bag in his face. “Yeah, but you did good, though. …Learn from my mistake. Don’t get divorced. Or at least get a good fucking lawyer if you do. I mean, you can actually afford one.”

“Bye, Davey. Till the next bribe.”

Michael returned to the kitchen to Ari and Eva, apparently now fast friends, laughing and speaking to one another in excited Spanish. The tip of Ari’s nose was somehow covered in flour, and her fingers were gunked up with sticky dough. It was disconcerting to reconcile this image of her with the one that Dave Norton had painted.

“I haven’t had biscuits and gravy for years, so I'm excited about this,” she told him. “Who was that at the door?”

Michael waved his hand in dismissal. “Just some Epsilonists.”

She looked up at him and studied him for a while. “You seem a little spooked.”

That was it. She couldn’t always tell if he was lying, but she could always tell what he was feeling. Michael sighed and forced a smile. “It’s just what I look like before I’ve had any coffee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, have a cookie. If you made it this far without hating me, have two cookies.


	9. Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?

She was completely honest about one thing, Michael thought—she was a good listener; or at least, she appeared to be. There was something about her aura that encouraged him to pour his heart out. If he could best describe the way that quality physically manifested on her, they would be the kind, coaxing eyes, the soothing, radiant smiles, the perfectly cued laughs, and the way the rest of her body just opened and directed itself towards him. And then there were her endless questions and prompts for him to elaborate, until he found a new story that he could regale her with. Of course, all those stories revolved around his favourite topic to talk about—himself—and she didn’t seem to mind. She hung on to his every word as if he was the only other person left on earth, as if she _truly_ saw him. It was that same magical feeling as that first night.

Michael couldn’t recall the last time he’d conversed with someone this long without it devolving into a shouting match of some sort. Before he knew it, he’d been talking to her for three hours; and somehow, he was pulling trays of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies from the oven. He hadn’t even noticed her moving around the kitchen on crutches or whipping up cookie dough, but that’s apparently what had been happening.

It was only when he excused himself for a bathroom break upstairs (so she could take the powder room downstairs) that Michael started to come down to earth a little bit. Her spell started fading while being away from her presence, and Agent Norton’s warning managed to worm its way into the forefront of Michael’s thoughts.

“She’s just pressing your buttons because she needs you,” he mumbled to his reflection in the mirror, “For a job. She’s a secret agent. It’s what she does.”

If anything is too good to be true, it usually is. That was it; building a good relationship with him was strictly business.

Any doubt he’d had melted when he found her in the living room, seated in front of the upright standing guitar case, when she gave him a reassuring smile and beckoned to him with a nod to join her.

“It’s been two days. I suppose I can finally have some sugar by this time,” Ari said. She grabbed a cookie from the plate on the coffee table and held out the plate to him.

But what if there was another perspective? Maybe her intent to charm him wasn’t as nefarious as Agent Norton made it out to be. Michael realized he’d never heard her talk about herself. He had so many questions for her, about her. The most obvious one— _what happened last night?_ , about her breakdown in front of the fireplace—would be another landmine if past experience was an indicator. If she was letting him be the centre of attention because she was deflecting it away from her, it was best to take it slowly with some easy ones, maybe whittle away at the armour a little bit.

Michael took a cookie and bit into it. It was warm, gooey, sweet, salty, and buttery—best damn cookie of his life. “So how is it that a girl like you joins the IAA?”

Ari’s body immediately stiffened, and she pulled away the plate from him.

In hindsight, that wasn’t such a lightweight question after all. Michael followed it up with, “I mean, you can sing. Play guitar. You’re a knockout. Why didn’t you become a pop star or something?”

To his relief, that did the trick. She chuckled. “I mean, I’m not bad, but I’m not _that_ good.”

“Are you nuts? You can actually sing. Pretty sure most of these so-called pop singers nowadays can’t sing at all; they rely on their good looks and dance moves and lack of clothes. That’s why all their songs sound the same….” He cut himself off before he went off on a rant.

She was still chuckling. “Okay, _Dad_.”

“So. How did you become an IAA agent?”

Ari looked at her interlocutor, who was sitting right beside her, mere inches apart. She was trained to withstand interrogation tactics from hostile parties looking to extract sensitive information, but nothing really prepared her for those prying, all-seeing blue eyes or that sexy, raspy voice.

“Ari,” he said, finding her uncharacteristic silence unsettling. “Please. I’d like to know.” He paused. “I mean, if it’s not too traumatic or anything….”

Her body relaxed. She shook her head, scolding herself for her own pettiness. “It’s not. I mean…. I just wish I had a more exciting story. I applied, went through the tests, went through the interviews. I got the job. That’s all there is to it.”

If he was effusive when talking about himself, then she was evasive when the subject was all her. “Why? Why not a music career?” He repeated the question before she could conveniently forget it.

Ari placed her half-eaten cookie on the edge of the plate and sat up straighter, folding her hands across her knees. “I’ve always been interested in foreign affairs and languages, so the IAA was one of the options that happened to work out. Music’s just a hobby. I never seriously considered it as a career. I didn’t want to end up hating it if I had to be mired in it.” She picked up her cookie again and took a bite. “Aren’t you worried about that by working in the movie business? That you’ll be disillusioned? You’re going to end up hating something you’ve loved your whole life?”

“Oh, you don’t get to do that. I’ve done enough talking about me,” Michael said firmly, even as he filed her last sentence in the back of his mind—it sounded awfully familiar. “I just want to get to know you. Is that so much to ask? It’s a bit unfair since you have an entire file on me. Whenever I run with a crew, on the way to a job, I like to get to know the people I’m with, because it might end up being the last conversation they have, or that I have.”

Ari snorted. “I mean, that’s a bit too much; that’s obviously not going to happen here.”

Michael shrugged. “Unless you know who this Cardinal really is and who she’s working for, you can’t say that for sure.”

She sighed. He was absolutely right. This little sleepover in a luxurious mansion was a nice break from her operation, but she was going to have to go back to reality in a few more days. She helped herself to another cookie, and he followed suit.

“Okay then,” Ari said slowly, “What else do you want to know? About me?”

“Do you really have to have sex with people to get them to do what you want?”

She burst out laughing. “ _That’s_ what you want to know?” 

He was grinning slyly. “Please tell me those femme fatale fantasies are true.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you. But no, not really, not for us Yanks. It’s those Russians that do a lot of it.”

“But you said last night…”

Ari continued, “I know. But it’s not exactly discouraged either. Comes down to a judgment call, if one is so compelled. Besides, I wouldn’t have sex with anyone I don’t like.”

“Does your boyfriend, partner, whomever, know that you’re a spy? What do you tell him about what you do for a living?”

She bit her lip. “I already told you. I don’t like being beholden to anyone. I like my independence. So I don’t do relationships.”

Michael shrugged. “I thought that was Bianca, or some made-up personality, talking.”

“That was also all me. It doesn’t compromise my cover if I disclose that about me. The best stories are rooted in reality.”

“So you’re really gonna do this for the rest of your life? All this running around, stalking people, and dressing up?” Michael waved his hand towards her.

“As long as it’s still fun, I don’t see why not. Or just until I get tired of it. What else should I do with the rest of my life? Settle down and have kids?” She snorted and laughed, but Michael’s expression was grim. She realized her faux pas, and heat rose to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

“It seemed a nice alternative to what I’d been doing.” Michael exhaled a heavy breath. This would have been a perfect time for a cigarette or a whiskey, but instead, he got another cookie. “Just didn’t expect everyone in this situation to turn out to be total shitheads. Including me.”

“At least you’re all living shitheads,” Ari said softly. “You made the right call, captain.”

“Yeah. It was the choice I _had_ to make. But I’m not sure if it was the choice I _wanted_. …But back to _you_ , you weaselly woman.” Michael pointed at her with the corner of a half-bitten cookie. “Doesn’t it ever get lonely?”

Ari looked at him squarely in the eye. “I live on my own, do everything on my own, and I prefer it that way. That makes me the ideal person to be working in intelligence. I can go anywhere around the world on short notice. I literally got nothing, no one to lose.” She lifted her outside hip and spun her body towards him so that she straddled his lap, facing him. “And then I find ways to cope.” She cupped his jaw in one hand, running her thumb on the cleft on his chin; and with the other, wiped away a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth, and sucked it off her thumb.

She was weaselling her way out of this conversation yet again, Michael knew, as he lifted his eyes up towards her. Why was letting her have her way feel so good though? “You always play, you never stay.” He paraphrased what she’d told him that first night. All things considered, she was the perfect mistress. He just knew to be careful to never call her that out loud.

“I’m going to get my tests updated. You should do yours too, tiger,” she said, “if you ever want me to suck your cock.”

 _Now_ she really was the perfect mistress. “You on birth control?”

“Oh, hell yeah, the works. I’m sterilized.”

It was that instinctive drive to procreate that reacted first, as an expression of shock and sympathy washed over his face. Maybe he sometimes did have a brief, wild fantasy of having a second chance at being a father, to try to make up for his past errors, especially by a woman as remarkable as Ari Luna. Ultimately, logic kicked in, and he had to tell himself it wasn’t his choice to understand nor to make.

She surely must have noticed, because she’d been caressing his face, feeling the prickle of his stubble on her fingers. Luckily for him, she didn’t seem insulted, nor to care about his reaction.

“How’s your head?” Michael asked, before he could say anything unseemly.

“Bump still hurts a bit. But I’ve been dandy, on the concussion front,” Ari replied. “Ankle sucks, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah? Because I still owe you that tour of Los Santos. I told you I’m a man of my word. Wanna go while you’re staying here a few more days? You ever been around while you’ve been here?”

“Can’t say that I have. What’s so wrong with staying indoors the whole week? I don’t mind. Still a lot of things we can do. Lots of places we can do around this big old house.” She glanced behind her shoulder, towards the fireplace. “I always wanted to make love in front of a roaring fire. On a shag rug.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I’m the only one between us here who’s allowed to be a living cliché. …I know, it’s winter—well, quasi-winter here in Los Santos—but it’s actually not too cold over at the pier, by the ocean. Fairgrounds are closed, thank god, but it’s nice to take a walk along the boardwalk without the crowds, and some of the seaside cafés are open. I really like going this time of the year, for some reason. Nothing a warm jacket can’t solve.”

She smiled and stroked his cheek, as if welcoming his suggestion. “I’m not really a beach person, but no crowds sounds nice. I’m up for that. But I also wanted to go up to the mountains, up at Galileo Park,” she said. “See the stars, see the city skyline and the backlots. But even in quasi-winter, it’s still too cold to go up there for now.” She chuckled. “God, you really bring out the cliché in me.”

Michael snickered. “You’re welcome,” and he gently pushed down on her shoulder blades to let her lips land on his for the kiss he’d been longing to give her all day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten so much satisfaction from just kissing a woman; it was usually done as a precursor to foreplay. Even in his recent attempts to rekindle his romance with his wife, it felt more like a chore, mouths soullessly mashing against each other. Not here, not with her. She kissed him back good, always like the first time. It was like he’d always known since that first night. Michael grinned into their kiss.

His smile quickly faded when they both sensed some sort of disturbance outside the house, both pulling away from the kiss and darting towards the direction of the house’s main entrance. She heard the noise; he felt the rumble in the ground, and he knew all too well that it was a car pulling up into the driveway. Ari spun herself off his lap to free him.

“Shit,” Michael swore, getting up from the couch. “No, no, no. Oh, no....”

Ari managed to grab her crutches and hopped her way to follow Michael into the study, where they peeked through the windows overlooking the driveway. His worst fears were confirmed when he saw the red Sentinel with its KRYST4L license plate right in front of him. But it wasn’t Amanda’s arrival that troubled Ari. Instead….

“Is that a film crew?” Ari asked in disbelief.

Michael’s “What the fuck?” was his way of saying yes.

She turned to him. “Is she moving back in?”

Michael didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“I have to leave. I can’t stay here,” Ari said, moving out of the study as agilely as a one-legged adult can.

“Ari, no, you don’t have to go,” Michael said, panicky, following after her. “I’m sure this is…nothing. I’ll tell her about your concussion and ankle and that you needed a place to stay. It’s all true anyway.”

Ari looked at him as if he had maggots swarming out of the orifices of his face. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s going to fall for that crap, especially not from you. Besides, a camera crew? I can’t get footage of me taken like this, not without proper cover.” 

“You can just hide somewhere else in the house, you know. Or not sign the waivers. Ask them to blur your face. I’ll get rid of them. Please...just stay.”

“I’m not going to take any chances. Besides, it’s your family.” She somehow managed to get up the stairs and into the guest room to pack her things. She paused to think for a while and then turned to him. “If she has a film crew, this may work in favour of our operation.”

Michael blinked. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ari patted him on the arm. “Play nice and gather some intel, soldier. Find out what she’s up to. Remember, our next plan is to get you noticed in Vinewood. Now go deal with your wife. I’ll see you at work.”

As much as he wanted to keep convincing Ari to change her mind, his wife’s return—particularly with a camera crew—was a more pressing matter, and he relented. Michael headed to his bedroom to change into a leather jacket and jeans—cameras, after all—before he made his way outside.

To Michael's amusement, as he observed from the front steps, Amanda had pulled back onto the street because the crew apparently wasn’t happy with the shot, and they wanted to shoot her pulling up into the driveway from several angles. They had Amanda pull up into the driveway from the street for about six times. That bought Ari some more time to sneak out, at least.

“Look who’s finally come crawling back,” Michael said dryly as Amanda stepped out of her car. Tracey and Jimmy also alighted from the red Sentinel. He glanced at his daughter and breathed a sigh of relief.

Amanda took off her sunglasses and smiled at him. “My darling husband,” she said in a tone dripping with irony. 

“What the fuck is all this?” He growled, motioning towards the white van and the film crew that were in his driveway.

Amanda’s wry smile grew wider. “I already told you, you numbnut, I met a producer who wants to make a reality show featuring me teaching yoga and tennis to the homeless.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, once he found out that my husband’s a Vinewood producer, he wanted you in the mix and to add a separation-slash-divorce storyline.”

“Divorce storyline?” Michael repeated. “That’s not gonna happen. No, never.”

She laughed. “Of course I know that. I know _you_. It doesn’t matter if we get a divorce or not. We just gotta play out the drama for the cameras.” She glanced around the exterior of the house. “Also, we gotta move back in the house. Getting a permit to shoot at the hotel is expensive, says my producer, and the only reason he’s even shooting me is because he can keep the budget low.”

“Wow,” Michael hooted, slowly clapping his hands in her face. “Why don’t we mark down this day in history, huh? You give a shit about someone else’s budget, only it’s not mine.”

“ _Also_ , I have to meet this new assistant of yours,” Amanda chirped. “Jimmy told me she’s fat? …Oh, I’d _love_ to include her in my show. Where is she?”

“She’s not here,” Michael said, glaring at his son. “She never was.”

“Oh my god, Michael, are you gaslighting me?” Jimmy exclaimed. “Your own flesh and blood?”

Tracey rolled her eyes as she walked past Michael to enter the house. “Well, I’ll find that bitch, and at least I don’t have to worry about her wearing my clothes. Because they won’t fit her! …What is that smell?”

“Cookies?” Jimmy said eagerly as he headed into the kitchen with his parents tailing him. “See? She _bakes_ for him!” He grabbed a cookie from a tray on the kitchen counter and took a bite. “This is what it tastes like without pot?!”

“Kids, remember what you just said, we may have to reenact this scene once the crew’s in place,” Amanda called.

While the rest of his family headed upstairs to try to find an intruder, Michael went to the living room and checked the far side of the couch.

The guitar was gone.

A smile curled Michael’s lips.

* * *

Fortunately, before Ari suffered her ankle sprain, she’d been able to roam around the De Santa property to figure out all possible exit and choke points. Force of habit. Not dissimilar to what Michael might do to case a bank for a job.

Since the west side along Portola Drive was blocked off due to Amanda’s and the camera crew’s presence, she had to make her way to the east side, towards Rockford Drive, across the back garden that overlooked the private tennis court. She always thought the tennis court was obnoxiously decadent.

Ambling with a bag and a guitar case on crutches was tricky but doable—she did have to trek once with a full 85-litre backpack through Central Asia. She’d been able to fasten the guitar onto her back by fashioning a harness with military-grade parachute cord that she also kept in her go bag. But once she got to the garden, the marble ledge was too narrow to accommodate her using crutches. She had to walk on the manicured lawn, trying not to look at the damage she was causing as she felt the tips of the crutches sink into the soil with every forward step. She owed Michael’s gardener a heartfelt apology and then some.

The jump from the ledge onto the Rockford Drive sidewalk was only about a yard, which she managed to make by leading with her good foot and falling forward on her hands, before she reached for the rest of her things from the ledge.

“Most exciting walk of shame yet,” Ari groaned, laughing at herself. A passerby gave her a high five.

She took a cab back to her apartment, and when she’d once derided her three-floor apartment building for having an elevator (she always took the stairs), she was now grateful for it. And while she had a cozy time with Michael in his mansion, it was just as glorious to be back alone in her own place. She could freely put her feet up on her couch with her quart of ice cream, propping the icy container against her sore ankle as she ate straight from the tub.

Ari supposed this was why many people felt the need to be in some sort of long-term monogamous relationship. It did feel warm and fuzzy inside to be taken care of, and to take care of someone. But she knew well enough that a 48-hour period was just an idyll, an idealized fluke where only their best faces were shown. Eventually, the good vibes will fade. Familiarity breeds contempt after all. In any case, should her relationship with Michael sour, she had several exit plans. Force of habit.

“He’s just nice and charming because it’s good for his ego,” Ari mumbled to herself. She could have lied her ass off while she was at his mansion, but she didn’t. Somehow, ever since the night at the bar, she’d been upfront about her self while she was with him, all up to her emotional outburst. It felt so natural to pour out her heart to Michael, but she couldn’t explain why. She wondered what else would have been revealed of each of them if his wife and kids hadn’t returned home. Maybe she would have fallen deeper in—

“No,” Ari gasped out loud into the ice cream tub before she could finish the thought. “No, no, no, no, no. Oh, fuck me,” she moaned in horror, burying her face in her hands.

The cognitive dissonance here was off the charts. A married man and career criminal with a romantically flighty and federally appointed intelligence officer.

She resorted to playing her new guitar—not the best distraction, as it only exacerbated the whirlwind of emotions going through her mind—but she couldn’t get “What a Fool Believes” out of her head. In time, after looking up some tablature (such a tricky song with unusual chord progressions) and videos online, she figured out how to play the song’s distinctive riff and was singing along.

The doorbell rang, and she stopped playing. She expected it to be a neighbour complaining about the racket she was making, but a little part of her heart skipped a beat. _Michael? Did he follow me here to spend the night?_ She landed on her good foot and grabbed a crutch to get to the door quickly. 

“Royce?” Ari said, trying to hide her shock and disappointment as she peered through the opening of the door that was still held together by the chain. “What are you doing here?”

“Luna. I’m returning something that belongs to you. May I come in, please?” Royce said from outside.

It took a second for Ari to remember that he’d kept her gun. She had no choice but to let him in, closing the door again to unlock the chain.

“I also figured you might want an update on your case,” Royce said after he closed the door behind him.

It was the last thing she wanted to think about today. “Yes, of course I do,” Ari said.

“First off, how are you?” Royce asked. He glanced down and gestured towards the crutch and her wrapped ankle. “You didn’t faint and fall from your concussion, I hope.”

“It’s just a mild ankle sprain.” Ari shrugged. “I tripped.”

“And your head?”

“Fine and dandy. I should be in the clear after these two days. I should probably be able to get back to the office tomorrow.”

Royce silently studied her and glanced around her apartment as he took off his black wool peacoat. She knew he was gathering information and making deductions about her and her private space—yet another reason she never dated intelligence officers, who usually kept their love lives in-trade because it was easier to relate to someone who also knew the life. Then, there was also the bunch like her, who preferred to cavort with their assets and select outsiders instead.

He reached from the coat’s inside pocket for her gun, which was wrapped in a resealable bag together with the detached magazine. She mumbled a “thank you” as she got it from him.

“That’s a real nice guitar,” he murmured. “That was you singing? Why, do you plan to audition for _Fame or Shame_? Didn’t think the fame bug would bite you this bad during this Vinewood assignment.”

Ari wasn’t sure if he was insulting her like usual or if he was attempting a joke, so she just stared blankly at him.

Neither of them said anything for a few beats, until Royce said, “Can we sit down? Don’t you need to keep that ankle of yours elevated?”

She had no plans to be a gracious host towards him, ignoring the fact he still had his coat draped over his arm. “I’m fine here. I’m sick of sitting down, actually.”

“You may want to sit down for what I have to tell you.”

That did not suggest that Royce was here for good news, so she led him to the couch, where she sat and threw up her leg to occupy the rest of the couch. He sat in the dining chair that she’d recently pushed in that corner for the sake of putting together a living area.

“We couldn’t detain Vitale. Rackman said it was literally a waste of resources for the IAA to try to get him into our custody. Casino’s pressing charges against him for disorderly conduct. Vitale’s been on their shit list for quite some time now, and his little stunt gave them the ammo to deal with it. You could get him for the assault on you.”

Ari sighed in defeat. “Fuck, I got smashed in the head for nothing. …No, I don’t want to bother with pressing charges.”

Royce paused. “I did convince some of my friends in the fuzz for some time in the room with him, and…. Your hunch was right, Luna. He does keep tabs on casino regulars who seem to be careless with money and makes a biweekly report to some people. Contact is only inbound, using burner phones. Vitale has no names, nor a way to identify the voice, since the caller or callers use a modulator. No way to tell for sure if this is the Cardinal and her people, but it’s not a bad assumption.”

She wanted to cry over reaching a dead end, all after being broken and injured, but she wasn’t going to let Royce Taggart see it. This wasn’t the worst setback of her career, but it was frustrating to her all the same. Ari looked up at the blank white ceiling to hold back her tears. “What now?”

He didn’t answer, which was all right, because her question was rhetorical anyway. When he finally spoke, he said, “Where were you these past two days?”

Ari processed what information Royce might have—she ignored the few calls and texts he’d left while she was at Michael’s, so Royce might have tried to check up on her at her apartment. She simply said, “I was staying at a friend’s.”

“Oh? Which friend?”

She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t know her.”

“Pretty impressive friend you have. Not too many people could afford a mansion in Rockford Hills.”

Ari’s expression remained stoic.

He went on, “I triangulated your cell signal to the Rockford Hills area. I think I may also have a friend there. What if it’s a mutual friend?”

She remained silent, and Royce moved closer to her by dragging his chair towards the couch.

Ari gave him absolutely nothing for a good few minutes, and it was Royce who cracked, saying in a low snarl, “It’s De Santa, isn’t it?”

There was no point in denying it to him—Royce knew the sordid, sexually charged details of her recruitment of Michael from their debrief. “He had an extra room,” Ari said matter-of-factly, “and I was instructed that I needed to be under observation. He offered. I said yes.”

Royce’s expression was unreadable, even to her; and in addition to the fact that he used agency tech to invade her privacy, here were two more reasons she didn’t care to get involved with intelligence officers.

He sighed. “Luna…. Bernard told me to observe—and to some extent, oversee—this operation of yours, as you’re essentially on probation following your suspension. I’m entitled to make recommendations. Including taking over this case or shutting it down all together.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That can’t be true. You’re bluffing.”

He shrugged. “Don’t believe me? Talk to him yourself.”

“Taggart…. That’s not necessary. I got everything under control.”

“Do you? Let’s take stock of your progress so far. Your one lead gave us nothing useful, and you’re sleeping with your asset, who still has done fuck nothing. If anything, you’re consistent with all the screwing you’re doing.”

“I need more time,” she said in a low whisper. “This has been like trying to find a needle in a haystack. None of the victims I talked to gave any useful information either.”

Royce looked at her straight in the eye. “I’m inclined to shut this thing down. Tell our VIP friend sorry, it’s been placed on the back burner, but keep sending us those donations anyway. You’ll be sent to Capital City, where you’ll be an instructor in the Academy. Because you know that saying—those who can’t, teach.”

“I’ve spent all my time these past few months working this case, this particular asset,” Ari protested. “I can’t afford to throw away all of this, not now, even after this setback. I still think there’s a shot. There’s still the next phase to work on.” She reached out and placed her hand on his knee. “Royce, please…. I’ll do anything, if you could just give me another chance,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Anything.”

He stared at her and slowly lowered his gaze to her hand, which was circling his knee and slowly creeping up his thigh. She gulped, trying to remember if she still had some condoms in her bedroom in case he was going to ask to fuck her. Or at best, he’d just ask her for a handjob or a blowjob—she could get it over with in a few minutes.

“Dinner,” Royce said softly.

Ari blinked in surprise. “What?”

He placed his hand on hers to gently remove it from his knee. “Let’s go out to dinner.” He cleared his throat. “Not tonight, no.” He motioned towards her wrapped leg. “When you’re healthy enough to wear high heels again.”

She stared at him, dazed. A blowjob would have been over much sooner, and she wouldn’t have to endure this tortured wait. “Yeah, sure, dinner. Fine,” she mumbled.

“I am looking forward to that, Ari. Can I call you ‘Ari’?” 

She shrugged. “I never forbade you from calling me that.”

Royce stood up and took the few steps towards the door. Instead of reaching for the handle, he stopped and turned around to face her again. “I can read between the lines, even if Bernard whitewashed the official record. I know you got your last asset killed, all because you decided to dole out some vigilante justice. Naughty girl.”

He paused to study Ari’s reaction, and she was glaring at him with narrowed eyes, trying to keep her own body from visibly trembling in anger. 

Royce went on, “It behooves me to keep this operation open with you on De Santa, actually. Maybe history will repeat.” He flashed that smarmy smile that charmed everyone else but her. “I can handle you, and I’m prepared for you because I know about you. But does he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this story seems like I’m winging it, it’s because I’m winging it and my outline went kaboom a long, long time ago. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Feel free to call me out in the comments.


	10. Hollywood Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let's write a song about a guy from the Midwest who runs into someone like this and gets caught up in the whole bizarro thing.”  
> \-- Bob Seger

Michael was finally back in his element, at least in Vinewood. While he had been at Richards Majestic, the multidisciplinary nature of film production was akin to the many hats he had to wear during his career in grand theft. When once he had to develop skills in marksmanship, piloting, and abseiling; he now had to be adept in filming logistics, cinematography, and marketing. Networking and social engineering still had their place in show business, even moreso. The variety of tasks and new things to learn kept his mind busy and his time occupied, and his creaking bones made him appreciate that these new tasks were no longer as physically demanding.

“People are always sympathetic to murderers as long as they’re good-looking,” Etienne had mused. “And well-dressed. And rich enough to have a serious gambling problem. But mostly because you’re white and male. I was never too worried about you.” 

Etienne Kang was indeed a miracle worker. With the help of puff pieces and pretentious photoshoots in _Vinewood_ and _Vain_ magazines and calls to well-placed contacts, materials for projects were being sent to Albatross Productions’ office, hoping to be picked up by the apologetic and wrongfully accused producer hoping to mount a comeback in Vinewood. Invitations to screenings, events, and other parties were also trickling in—perfect timing as the spring/summer movie circuit was approaching. Even without a specific project, Michael had to make himself busy and seen among his Vinewood peers. 

He was also busy on the family front, as they’d all moved back in, motivated by the reality show and his recent rise in reputation these past eight weeks. In some weird way, his family’s return gave Michael a sense of normalcy and relief. They all still couldn’t stand each other, sure; but as Amanda had told him, they were all too irreparably damaged and stuck with each other. It was going to make for great television.

And when things got crazy at the mansion, he would find his way to Bridge Street, into Ari’s arms. 

Michael had offered to get Ari a nicer, closer apartment, but she’d laughed him off, saying she wasn’t going to be that kind of mistress. He never thought it could be possible for someone to like him for something other than his money, especially not when she came in the form of this otherworldly nymph. Then, she’d joked that she was only keeping him around for the heavenly foot rubs.

All in all, life was good for Michael De Santa.

“I am missing something. I can’t help but feel it’s staring at me right in the face,” Ari groaned during an in-person update with Michael and Etienne at the Albatross office. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out how the Cardinal finds out such intricate, up-to-date details about her marks. And I feel that once I figure that out, I’ll see the whole picture.”

“You mean apart from social media?” Etienne asked.

“There has to be a common thread with these victims. But that’s one problem too. Everyone knows everyone in Vinewood. My scope is way too broad,” Ari said. “I’ve run through every detail in Vitale’s profile—past movies he’s worked on, the Vinewood grips’ union, and so on. Nothing really sticks.”

Michael shrugged. “If nothing’s sticking, maybe think outside the box. Who are the type of people in Los Santos who listen to people’s stories all day? Bartenders? Shrinks? Cab drivers? I can put you in touch with my pal who owns the Downtown Cab Company.”

“I’ll run down any trail. That would be terrific, please,” Ari said.

“And hey, you told me I can pick up movie rights, right?” Michael said. He picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk behind him and waved it. “What about this?”

Ari read the title page. “No.”

Etienne also read the title page, and his eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”

“But you told me I can get to pick passion projects,” Michael protested. “Since I didn’t have that liberty with Solomon.”

“Not that!” Ari and Etienne exclaimed in unison.

“You’re better off making a film about your life or something,” Ari argued, shaking her head.

“But I know just the guy for this,” Michael said, waving the papers in his hand. “Someone with the creative vision to bring this project to life.”

Ari and Etienne looked at one another.

“I mean,” Etienne sighed in resignation, “you do have to make a show of working in Vinewood. So this is you working in Vinewood. Even if you bomb spectacularly. You’re not going to win all your pitches.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Come on, have a little faith. I’ve met death row inmates who were far more optimistic than you lot.”

“Well, Albatross is never going to be able to afford that property either,” Ari pointed out. “Every request I make for additional funding gets denied. They say I gotta make my own money, wink wink, but that’s not how I fly.”

“I’ll get money,” Michael said decisively.

“Don’t tell me you’re going back to your old stick-up ways,” Ari joked.

Michael had to admit, it stung that Ari would still think of him in that regard, even if the tone in her voice had been light-hearted. But when he would take the time to consider it, why would she not? “No, I’m talking about the Vinewood way. Finding investors. Sponsors. I’ll even pump in my own money if I have to.”

“Fine,” Ari sighed. “Your passion project, your money.”

“I’m telling my guy about it now. He should be pretty flexible since it’s me.” Michael was typing on his phone. “When are you free? You should come with.”

Ari smirked, which she always would do whenever he’d drop a Midwesternism. “I’m not your actual assistant, you know.”

“I know. It’s just that—I missed you,” Michael said.

Ari uneasily shot a quick glance at Etienne, who in turn dropped his interested gaze from them and now was intently studying his sparkly blue fingernails.

“Come on. Aren’t you even curious at how Vinewood operates?” Michael continued. “I get the impression this kind of operation isn’t really in your wheelhouse. What are the chances you’re going to get another assignment like this one? You might as well go for the full Los Santos experience. What’s a better microcosm of L.S. excesses, glamour, and vapidity than Vinewood?”

She sighed. The puppy dog eyes were hard to resist. “Fine. Line it up with my calendar then.”

“ _Full Los Santos_ ,” Etienne exclaimed, “That’s it! I like that for a title. I’m telling R.J.”

Michael grimaced. “What are the fucking odds you’re also doing PR for my wife’s reality show?”

Etienne winked. “Because I’m the best, honey. It’s only because of Miss Luna’s precedence that your image is going to be favourable, but without the IAA’s interference, I’d make you a daytime talkshow host’s scapegoat. You would’ve still had some notoriety from the Richards fallout.”

“I should be so lucky,” Michael said sarcastically. “I’m an old fart. I don’t understand the appeal of these reality shows and why my wife and daughter are obsessed with ‘em.”

“It’s only a matter of time until someone gets elected president of the United States just because he was in a reality show,” Etienne said in a tone as if he was explaining it to a five-year-old. “Even if he’s an asinine turd with zero qualifications. Which was why he’d be on a reality show in the first place.”

Ari snorted. “Heaven forbid, I hope not. I got a better chance of getting married than that ever happening. I can’t even get a tattoo because it’s too permanent. Tattoos, religion, marriage, and children. I love them for other people when it happens to them because it’s what they want, but I don’t see any of that for me.”

“There’s always divorce,” Etienne pointed out. “And escaping a cult. And lasers.”

“What’s the one for children?” Ari asked.

“I did say ‘lasers,’” Etienne deadpanned, and they both laughed.

The two of them continued talking about tattoo turn-ons and turn-offs, but Michael tuned out. Ari’s position on marriage and children wasn’t news to Michael, but since it was the path he’d gone down many years ago, he felt triggered once again by the spoken reminder. He struggled with putting it all together because he’d never met a more caring person in his life. (Then again, the bar was pretty low.) She’d told him to keep their relationship strictly professional in the office, but as soon as they’d step out of the elevator and hit the parking lot together, there was the way she’d hold his hand. The way the side of her head would softly drop onto his arm. The way her body fit him when he’d wrap his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. The way he’d slow and shorten his stride to make this magical walk to his car last as long as possible. She’d insist on cooking dinner for him every time he came over to her apartment, rebuffing his offers to get takeout or go out. She’d say it was because it was never fun cooking for one, and it was the first assignment in many years where she had access to a nice kitchen and bougie ingredients. But he knew better.

It was as if he’d known all along, since the moment she stormed her way into his life—this is what Ariadne Luna is capable of.

Michael came back to earth when he felt hard tugging on his coat sleeve, but it was Etienne trying to get his attention.

“Guess who’s going to an invite-only premiere of the latest Marlon Sciarra film,” Etienne sang while his phone was clasped in his hand. “One that’s going to be attended by a veritable list of actors, directors, producers, and naturally, Sciarra himself.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Marlon Sciarra’s latest film? You mean _The Charlatan_? You’re shitting me.” He turned to Ari. “He’s my new favourite filmmaker now since I started working with Solomon.”

“You sure you want to meet him too then?” Ari teased. “Isn’t he the one with all the gangster movies?”

“That is a simplistic reduction of Marlon Sciarra’s filmography, and I will not stand for it. He’s only done four gangster movies. The actual recurring theme in his movies, of course, is Catholic angst and self-loathing.”

Depending on Ari’s mood, Michael’s movie geek tendencies would either amuse or annoy her. Today, it was the latter.

She turned to Etienne. “How’d you manage that?”

“Someone got un-invited, but it’s been all over Bleeter today that the producer-director Brandon Taylor has been fucking young boys, so…take a gander why there’s a free spot now. Le outrage du jour. Murderer is only a step below child molester in Vinewood, it seems,” Etienne mused. “His downfall is that his victims are still alive and well to talk about it. You made sure none of your witnesses or victims are still talking, so good job, you.”

“Thanks…I think?” Michael had wondered if Etienne used to be a criminal given his questionable moral code sometimes, but Michael finally decided it was because Etienne operated in the dangerous, cutthroat world of celebrity public relations.

“ …Of course, it’s just going to be a cinema full of brown nosing, dick riding, and ego stroking,” Etienne said.

“In short, just an average day in Vinewood,” Michael said wryly.

“You’ve taken to your new career well,” Etienne confirmed. “Sciarra can be a pompous prick, but you already knew that. Best not to ruffle his feathers.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” Michael pledged. “When is it?”

“Tonight. In a few hours in fact.”

“Oh.” Michael’s face fell a bit—not too much—and he reflexively turned to Ari. 

“Go,” Ari simply said. “You can take a rain check on tonight’s rendezvous. Making waves in Vinewood is your task for this phase after all.”

“I could go for that rendezvous tomorrow night, if the drop point will be open then.”

“Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. Friday—”

“Stop talking in code; I already know you two are fucking. I see the way you look at one another,” Etienne snapped. “I put my money on Mike. Carlo put his money on Taggart.”

“Taggart? What? Eww. No.” Ari made a face. “I’m kicking Diaz off the team.” She’d been relieved that Royce had to fly off to Mexico shortly after he’d tried to bully his way into her mission and her pants. She was really hoping he was going to forget about it, but she knew she wasn’t going to be let off so easily. 

Seriously, dinner? What sick game was Royce playing? His visit to her apartment was the incendiary that set ablaze the scenes that came before—her assault, her injuries, and most of all, her breakdown that night at Michael’s place. And now, the confirmation that Royce knew what she’d done in her last mission brought her frequent bouts of anxiety, which she thought she’d gotten over since her leave, rushing back to the surface.

“You look a little pale,” Michael whispered to her, interrupting her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Do I?” Ari asked, although she’d known the moment her skin grew cold. “Oh, anemia,” she lied. “I think I got my period today. Just as well that we postpone tonight.”

“I mean, you oughta know I have a strong stomach,” Michael shrugged. “What’s a little blo—”

“Go home and change into a nicer suit—that blue bespoke Saeeda,” Etienne interrupted loudly before Michael could finish his sentence.

“Showtime,” Michael sighed. He looked at Ari. “Any parting words, boss?”

Ari shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not the PR expert here. What do you want me to say? ‘Be yourself’? ‘Don’t cock up’? There you go. Don’t cock up.”

“What’s to cock up?” Michael protested. “All I have to do is watch a movie, have a few cocktails and cigars, network a little, mug for the cameras. It’ll be a cinch, right?”

* * *

“Fake it until you make it,” had been Etienne’s advice to Michael while they worked on his PR blitz in the past weeks. As Michael stepped onto the culturally appropriated red-and-gold themed lobby of the Oriental Theater, he repeated the phrase in his head. He’d been at it for several months, but presenting himself as a movie producer still felt surreal to him at times. He could actually put faces to the names that rolled in the credits of the movies he enjoyed and call them his peers. Sure, he’d gone to events while under Richards Majestic’s employ, but tonight’s event was his coming out party as his own man. He even had business cards.

The first order at events like these, of course, was a double whiskey, straight. Michael gulped all three ounces at once before he mingled with the throng of filmmakers milling about in the lobby, touching base and introducing himself where appropriate. Most of the faces were already familiar to him. But he knew it was only a matter of time before he ran into the most familiar one.

“Michael, my boy.” Solomon Richards greeted him with a wide smile and a hearty pat on the back. “How have you been, son?”

Michael had to muster every ounce of his will power to resist throwing a punch, feeling disgusted by the garish display of affection from the man who threw him under the bus. But that was the old him. Instead, Michael forced a smile so hard that his cheeks hurt. “Solly. It’s so good to see you.” He shook his former boss’s hand a little way too enthusiastically. 

He’d expected a few more faux pleasantries, but mercifully, Solomon moved on to greeting the next colleague in his sights. Even that brief an exchange drained the energy out of Michael, and he walked over to the bar again for another double. He figured he could contribute with a bit of hands-on work on Ari’s side of the operation, like talking to the few female producers present.

So it was a calculated maneuver that he took a seat in the theatre next to a long-haired brunette olive-skinned lady who looked to have gone by herself. She looked to be closer to Amanda’s age than Ari’s, but she was still elegantly beautiful and very married. Michael’s first impulse had been to try to get her in the sack tonight, but the thought faded just as quickly as it came. What was happening to him?

“Big fan?” Michael asked her, trying to start a conversation.

The woman turned to him, her lips quirked into a small smile. “Marlon Sciarra? He’s not bad.”

He held out his hand. “Michael. De Santa. Huge Sciarra fan.”

She regarded him carefully with her blue eyes, but without a hint of recognition. This was certainly the first time she’d ever heard of him. “Laura Young.” She shook his hand.

“You did the Dallas Smith pillaging archaeologist movies and award bait war dramas like _Calais_ , which just won this year,” he said eagerly.

“You’ve heard of my work,” Laura said, impressed. “I regret I don’t know any of yours.”

“Well, I got my start on _Meltdown_ while I was with Richards Majestic.”

“Oh,” Laura said politely. “Well, but I believe I might have seen you before.”

“Seen me in any magazines lately?” Michael offered.

Laura shook her head. “No…well before. Some time ago. In person, maybe.”

“That so? It’s an awfully small town after all. I would definitely remember a face like yours, Laura Young. About time I put a face to the name.”

She glanced down at his lap, where his left hand was resting on his thigh. “You going home to your wife tonight, Michael? You know, it’s been a long time since _my_ wife and I had a man in our bed…. What do you say if we skip this sausage fest of a movie and we hold our own party in private?”

A threesome he didn’t have to organize himself? _YES!_ Michael’s pleasure principle screamed at him, but the nagging logical part of his brain kicked in, _But it was a pain in the ass to wait to get those tests done for Ari. Ari, Ari, Ari. Tonight was going to be the night. She’ll be waiting._

Fortunately, before Michael could give her an answer that he was bound to regret, the lights dimmed and the giant screen came to Technicolor life. Laura and the other 930 people in the theatre vanished from his regard. He was watching the latest Sciarra before it was even released to the general public! Even a little perk like this enthralled him to no end.

At one point in the movie, Michael chuckled loudly.

Laura leaned in towards him and asked under her breath, “What’s so funny?”

He hadn’t realized he’d laughed out loud at a scene that wasn’t meant to be funny. “Oh. Nothing. …Eh, it’s just a small detail….” 

“What is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately, as he was engrossed in the dialogue being spoken. He waited until a lull, but he didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he leaned in sideways into Laura. “These goons are slinging five mill in cash in a duffel bag and running around like it’s nothing. In reality, that bag’ll weigh over a hundred pounds easy. Now, if they wanted a big take that weighed a lot less, they would’ve hit up a jewelry store. A diamond that weighs a gram, same as a paper bill, would be worth up to 40 times more. …But this is Vinewood. You gotta suspend disbelief sometimes, right?” He quickly pulled away so he could finally lend his full attention back to the movie.

She studied his face, bathed in the shifting glow of the projector light, with a renewed interest. She shushed back a person behind them who had shushed Michael.

When the film’s final frame faded, the audience applauded and gave a standing ovation when Sciarra’s name led the end credits, with Michael among the most enthusiastic ones.

“Which movies did you say you did again? What’s your studio?” Laura asked him when the applause died down.

“Uh, _Meltdown_.” Michael would always lead with the biggest box office hit, a feat he hadn’t been able to replicate with Solomon since. “Back when I was with Richards. I just started at Albatross, my own studio.” Technically.

“I remember you now,” she said. “You got dropped by Richards. But you know what, I figured Solly had to do it to save face from the even bigger turds he’d laid well before. He’s nothing but a relic.”

Michael had cringed at first but then relaxed when she started insulting Solomon. They walked out of the cinema together and back towards the lobby. He offered to get her a drink at the bar, but she declined, saying she was staying sober.

“What about Sciarra’s other films? Can you say anything that was in them that wouldn’t happen in real life? I find it so fascinating,” Laura said.

He thought for a while. “Ah. _Appleton’s Twelve_ was just an excuse to bring in an A-list ensemble cast and for Sciarra to have his biggest box office hit. It worked. But in truth, if you get that many people in for a heist, you’re going to get some fucking snitches. A real heist crew would keep it tight. Less likely for any crew member to jump at a chance for a reward with the feds. See, Jesus had twelve, and even he had Judas.” 

Laura chuckled and caught someone’s eye from behind Michael’s shoulder. He hoped she was bringing in a few more friends of the female kind, so he went on as he felt that person approach, “And _The Life and Times of Danny-Ric_. Now I love the movie, and I love Danny-Ric and I love how cool Theodore Bickford plays him, but…his thing of being a rich guy who robs banks just for fun? Let me tell you, an actual bank robber never gets into it for fun. Sounds like a cool concept for a movie, but there’s just no fucking way that happens in real life. And a rich, important businessman would just hire guys to do the dirty work for him. …If a guy wants to have fun or get a big thrill, I don’t know, he should just jerk off more.”

“I thought you would be at your wife’s event tonight,” a voice interrupted Laura’s laughter, and while Michael wondered why Amanda would have an event tonight, his eyes widened when he saw Marlon Sciarra standing right beside him—he was looking right at Laura.

“I was, but I left that event early, so I arrived here late.” Laura gave Sciarra two kisses on the cheek. “You know I wouldn’t miss any of your premieres, father.”

Michael felt like he was punched in the gut at the revelation—didn’t Marlon Sciarra have just the one daughter, Simona. And then Michael remembered a random trivial detail, that Sciarra’s daughter’s full name was Simona _Laura_ Sciarra—she probably changed her name professionally. The colour drained from Michael’s face.

“Who’s this clown?” Sciarra asked.

“Michael De Santa,” Laura said, “producer for Albatross Productions.” 

Michael held out his hand. “ _The Charlatan_ was a masterp—”

“Stop sucking my dick,” Sciarra snapped, ignoring Michael’s outstretched hand. “Tell me what you _really_ thought.”

Michael hesitated, not wanting to add any more fuel to the fire after he’d effectively dissed Marlon Sciarra’s films to his daughter. 

“You had no problem stating your opinion when you didn’t know who I was,” Laura said in an even tone. “Michael…trust me, it’s okay.” 

Michael looked at her uneasily, and not wanting to go against a lady’s request, carefully started, “I’ve always been a huge fan of your movies; they all follow the same theme—guy gets into a life of crime, rises in the ranks, gets rich and lives it up, and then everything comes crashing down because he and everyone else he knows are absolutely terrible people, blah blah blah. It’s what I come to expect from a Sciarra every time. …But honestly, three and a half hours? Isn’t that a little too gratuitous? You could cut so many unnecessary scenes out to keep it at a respectable runtime and still stay true to the story. And there was a great story in there, I could tell. I just wish I didn’t have to squint so hard to find it.”

Michael stopped and took a deep breath, horrified that that rant came out of him—normally, he’d talk the ear off of some bartender after departing a movie theatre, but somehow, he’d managed to blurt out some unfiltered statements right at Marlon Sciarra’s face. He wasn’t exactly sure why he did that, but now his Vinewood career was once again over before it even began.

Sciarra said firmly, “I’m obviously not changing a thing about the movie, and you’re fucking wrong. But I appreciate you having the balls to tell it to my face, son.” He held out his hand, which Michael shook firmly.

As Michael watched Sciarra’s retreating figure in confusion, Laura explained, “It’s so rare to find anyone in Vinewood who isn’t a yes-man to someone like my father. That’s how someone like Solomon Richards gets a movie like _Space Bees_ made.”

He was about to point out that he too was involved in _Space Bees_ , but decided to finally keep his mouth shut this time. Now that he thought about it, it did sound like a trainwreck in retrospect….

Laura went on, “You’re new to the scene, I can tell. Maybe you know a little too much minutiae about crime, and I don’t want to know why. But a fresh perspective is welcome in this bubble of a town.”

She asked for his business card, and as she excused herself, Michael couldn’t believe how luck had gone his way for once. He sent excited texts to everyone he could think of, and even if he knew it was late into the night and most people would be in bed, there was one person who replied instantly.

 _I’m happy for you. :)_ was Ari’s text. She sent a follow-up text a minute later. _Come over. Let’s celebrate._

* * *

Michael was in a good mood; how could he not be? He’d just met two legendary Vinewood filmmakers who valued his input and didn’t hate him. He bopped his head along to the upbeat song Ari had playing in her apartment—it had modern production but a vibe straight out of Motown. He checked the details on her phone’s lock screen—“Holy City” by Joan as Police Woman. Maybe the two of them didn’t see eye to eye when it came to movies—she’d scoff at _Rum Runner_ being overly misogynistic as a product of its era—but they damn well jibed with their taste in music.

He excitedly recounted the whole story of his night to Ari as they sat on her bed together, and she patiently listened, like she always did. As the high of his encounter died down, Michael sensed there was something amiss with Ari. 

“Ari, is there anything the matter?” Michael’s best friend had often decried him for being too self-absorbed all the time. He hoped it wasn’t too late to try to turn it around, but he cursed at himself for not realizing it as soon as he’d arrived—he’d been too caught up in the moment.

He could tell from the red, puffy eyes. It was a look he had also seen on his reflection several times not so long ago. She had been crying. He took a quick glance around the bedroom and spotted an empty wine goblet and a wand vibrator on her bedside table. Her sleeping aids, she’d once told him. 

“Nothing.” Ari shook her head. “Just allergies.”

“Bullshit,” Michael growled. “Did I wake you up?”

“I told you, it’s nothing.” She stroked his arm. “I didn’t ask you over so we can argue. I’m awake now. I’m glad you’re here, okay?”

He grabbed her arm to stop her and twisted it, taking her other arm to seize her reed-like wrists effortlessly in his firm grip. 

“I’m not stupid,” Michael growled in a low voice. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you weasel your way out of your issues with sex, you…sex weasel.”

Ari gasped. “Oh my god, I give you a killer pet name, and the best you can come up with for me is ‘sex weasel’? Third worst day of my life.”

“Hey, did you know weasels were considered super sexy in Renaissance art? Because back then, they thought weasels conceived through the ears and gave birth through the mouth.”  [ref](https://twitter.com/museumweirdo/status/1263995640788348928)

“You know I’m pretty open-minded, but ear sex is a hard, hard pass.”

They both laughed, but again, he knew what she was trying to do. He was still gripping her wrists in his hand, and he squeezed them tighter.

“What’s going on, Ari?” he asked in a somber tone. “You can tell me anything.”

She didn’t answer at first as she gazed at his face. He’d come from the salon since she’d seen him earlier today, and she had to admire how he wore the kempt look well, how she wanted desperately to run her fingers over his sharp jawline—but she couldn’t, not with her hands tethered with his fingertips cruelly stretching her skin.

When she finally spoke, she said in a low voice, “I’m going to tell you something—I’ve never told anyone before.” Ari took a deep breath. “You might think I’m some sort of psycho.”

“Try me. I may know a thing or two about psychos.” 

Her eyes darted around uneasily before she gained the courage to lock them into his stare. “I’m wet.”

He grunted in exasperation and pressed her wrists tighter. “Oh no, you don’t—”

“There,” she gasped at the same time he crushed her wrists, “I like it when you do that to me. I like it when you hurt me—”

Michael was shaking his head. “No. Shut up. This is you skirting around your problems again.”

“—And you like hurting me. Tell me you’re not hard right now.”

He hadn’t realized that he was still squeezing her wrists so tightly that her fingertips had gone pale. He let go of his grasp. “No,” he said simply, although he wasn’t sure what he was saying no to.

“Think about it. You know I’m right.” Ari ran a finger down his torso, still sheathed by his dress shirt, before her hands started unbuckling his belt. Her body slunk its way down to the floor, her pink silk nightgown drifting in her wake, as she knelt between his legs.

“You can’t keep running, Luna. One day, your legs are going to give, and whatever it is you’re running away from is going to catch up on you….” Michael was hoping his words were enough for her to back off, because the last thing he wanted to do right now was to physically push her away…what if she was right about him hurting her and liking it? How could that be true? He’d never once laid a finger on his wife or daughter, not even when they’d hurl death threats at one another…that was just…their relationship dynamic.

His feeling of dread was confirmed when he felt her long fingers wrap around his mostly rigid member— _Fucking Townley, why must you always be so predictable?_ —and when her hot, hungry mouth closed in around him, sparking the release of happy hormones in his brain, he resignedly updated his mental scorecard. _Townley, 0 — Sex Weasel, 5._

By the time Michael realized that she was doing her damnedest to get him off, he panicked slightly. “Ari…no…I can’t…. Let me save it….”

Ari raised her gaze up at him, and the sorry look in her wide brown eyes she’d had a while ago was now replaced by steely determination. Her hands, now coated with flavoured lube, spun and snaked his shaft, while her pillowy tongue prodded and pressed against the smooth, sensitive head. How could anyone still be so gorgeous with a cock in her mouth?

She wasn’t even trying to edge him at all; and as the electric storm within him brewed, he surrendered to its onslaught, letting his orgasm rip through him, blasting his release against the roof of her mouth, accompanied by pained groans and convulsions. She stroked and sucked and swallowed with his spasms until he was finally spent.

She rose up to kiss him, tasting the vestiges of artificial strawberry on her lips; and as she pulled away, Michael looked at her with a hint of sadness. “I’ve never…. I don’t think I can get it up anymore. It’s one and done for me.” 

Ari stroked his face—she really liked doing that, he’d noticed—running her thumb on the mole beneath his left cheek. “The night is young. There are other ways to play.” Even if they were the only two people in the apartment, she leaned in, her hair tickling his cheek, so she could whisper in his ear, as if telling him a guarded secret, “I want you to spank me.”

Michael pulled away, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. “I’m not a sadist.”

Ari’s eyes winced, but she had that kind, almost beatific, smile that never failed to reel him in. “You are. Little bit.” She pressed her thumb and index finger close together. “You can get pretty aggressive with the foot rubs. And I let you. …I mean, I’m not a total pain slut. …I’m not asking for the _Chains of Intimacy_ stuff either. That’s a hard, hard, _hard_ pass.”

“Safe word,” he said automatically, “you should have a safe word in case I go too far.”

“‘Quirky,’” Ari said, and she shrugged when she saw his furrowed brow. “First word that came to mind.” Maybe it was what she thought to describe him when she looked at him with his rumpled hair, his wrinkled, unbuttoned dress shirt, and his open fly with his cock and balls sticking out immodestly. She couldn’t imagine a sight that could make her any hornier.

Michael took his time to devour her lips and the rest of her body after he slipped the nightgown off her, burying his face in her delicate, smooth skin and drowning in her warm spring scents of marigolds and vanilla. This was the most precious gift she was giving him, her time. There was no rushing like a hooker on the clock or an uninterested, jaded wife. He tried to put a monetary price on a moment like this, but it was an exercise in paradox—what mattered was that she wanted nothing more in return but him.

Before he knew it, his hands had coaxed her body onto her belly laying over his lap. He caressed her soft, round buttocks through her red lace panties and slipped his fingers towards the front. Poor angel hasn’t gotten off yet.

“Michael,” she uttered under her breath, drawing the two syllables out in lento time. His name in her sing-song voice was music to his ears.

“Why do you want to be punished?” Michael asked, but he wasn’t sure anymore if he’d spoken it out loud or only in his head. She made no acknowledgment of his question, or appeared not to. In any case, her melodic moans diverted his thoughts away as he prodded her clit through the soaked fabric. All he wanted to do now was to keep making her sing that serenade she’d perform only for him. He peeled the panties away.

The first slap landed on her fleshy cheek with just enough force to make her feel the impact, but not enough to hurt. He continued to build on the strength of his blows, watching as the surface of her skin transformed with every drop of his hand, the twin blotches of pink growing wider and darker. Her figure jolted forward on the bed in a spastic dance to the drumbeat he was orchestrating. He was mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him, one that he was creating and shaping with his own hand. He felt powerful.

He let himself be guided by the sounds—the heavy smacks echoing in the tiny room, her commands of “more” and “harder”, and her ached yelps of ecstasy…or was it agony? He couldn’t tell; there was always a fine line between pleasure and pain. But it had been long enough. She still hadn’t used the safe word, but he was going to make the call.

“It’s over,” Michael whispered, prodding his fingers inside her with one hand and soothing her raw, sore buttocks with the other. Now, it was going to be pure pleasure for her, at last. As he thrust in and out of her, Ari’s tune changed, a warble of hitched breaths as she ascended to her climax. She reached underneath her and started stroking him.

He pulled her up so she could sit right on top of him, sitting as straight as he could to support her leaning into him, and spread her legs wide across so he could reach over for her clit. She had barely any time to come down from her previous climax; and he was cruelly working her into another, rubbing frenetically at the one spot she’d told him, taught him, was her favourite. Her head thrusted backwards into his shoulder, her spine stiffened and recoiled in anticipation, her pelvis rocking wildly to meet his hand. 

She was so beautiful when she came, he thought, while her sweet, sweet music escaped her breaths and her entire body violently shuddered atop his. When she finally landed back down into his body, he met her lips with a kiss. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she kissed him back, feeling the heat emanating from her pores, her radiance.

When they pulled back from one another to catch their breaths, Ari reached beneath her and squeezed her hand around his erection. As she stroked him, she smiled at Michael and his surprised, horrified, but still handsome face, a devilish glint in her eye.

“See, I always knew you had it in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy overwrought metaphors, Batman. If you reached this point, I ought to pay you for going through any of this. @_@


	11. Safe from Harm

The worst day of Ari’s life was the day she first met Dominic Proulx, but not by any fault of his own. It was also the day her mother died.

She got on the earliest flight to Liberty City as soon as she heard the news her mother had days. Breast cancer, detected too late—Ari barely even had the time to process the diagnosis, and there was this other bombshell. From her starting point in Pretoria, she had to transit through the Middle East, where she initially encountered Nic in the first class lounge. First class was the only ticket available for the flight, and Ari spared no expense.

Ari had noticed a handsome, well-dressed gentleman eyeing her surreptitiously from across the lounge; of course she noticed, as a covert operative and as a woman. She did have to dress appropriately for first class; having hastily bought a designer skirt suit on the way to the airport—if she showed up in sweatpants, the incongruity would draw unwanted attention. Being inconspicuous was all about blending into the crowd, fitting in. But as it turned out, being a young woman travelling alone in the Middle East warranted plenty of attention and unwanted advances anyway, but nothing that she wasn’t used to. 

It was hard not to notice him either. Even in a lounge full of apparent tycoons and oil magnates with eye-watering fortunes, he had the type of charisma that was the fulcrum of the whole room’s gravitational pull, and he damn well knew it. With her own more discreet glances, she formed the image in her head. Salt-and-pepper hair and greying at the temples, which was definitely her type, and clear blue eyes that sparkled when the light caught them.

The pocketbook she’d picked up from the gift shop was a mindless comedic novel, the perfect distraction from the impending reality. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mr. Tall, Black, and Handsome was leaving her to her book.

Shortly after she took her seat in the plane, she got the phone call that her mother was gone.

Ari felt nothing. She was numb. It was as if her soul had floated away from her body and shattered into a million pieces, leaving a hollow shell behind.

She had to feel something.

She too knew what she was capable of. She’d done it countless times, and she would always get what she wanted. In this case, all it took was eye contact and a smile. Men were so predictable.

And then he invited her into his private cabin, with only one intent in mind. He treated her like a princess, which was exactly what she needed. This was why she preferred more mature lovers; they were more experienced and usually less selfish. Usually. 

There would be the rest of her life to grieve; she just didn’t want to feel it now, or ever. 

She had to keep her emotions in check. She had to keep soldiering on. That’s what her mother, the light of her life and the most tremendous person she’d ever known, would have done. It was what she did whenever she had to step out in the public eye, meeting some of the most powerful people in the world, through the course of her marriage. To Ari, that marriage had been her mother’s only flaw, her blindspot. She never understood why someone as headstrong and intelligent as her mother stayed in a marriage that seemed to bring only pain. Divorce was the practical, logical thing to do.

Ari didn’t see the distinctive, ridiculously sexy man again until about a year later, when they ran into one another by chance at the arrivals concourse at the Francis International Airport. You never really forget the face that buried itself in your crotch the day your mother died. They learned enough about one another to schedule a rendezvous, which was to say their names (in her case, her cover name) and contact details.

The messages they exchanged over the years were simple, straightforward questions and answers about one another’s whereabouts. Purely transactional and mutually beneficial sex, without any personal drama or fragile feelings to tiptoe around. This was Ari’s ideal of a relationship, if she ever wanted one.

Which was why Nic’s latest text to her was a bit jarring.

_Happy 7th anniversary. :) You still in L.S? Will be in town for meetings next week._

Until today, Nic had never given any indication that he saw Ari as anything more than an impersonal steady hook-up. She liked keeping him around because he was an incredible lover. Not that she needed a man to get off every time—she could do it on her own—but it was fun to cede control sometimes. Variety is the spice of life and all that.

Now, she knew, he actually remembered the exact date they’d first met, one that was impossible for her to forget. Now, she realized, she kept him on an unconscious level because of the reminder he served as.

It means nothing, she quickly told herself. It’s trivial to him. He’s just good with numbers; he’s a banker. He did have a playful sense of humour whenever they bothered with small talk—she didn’t have to read too much into his greeting. He simply had no idea that her mother had died that same day they’d met, that it was an anniversary that was more painful for her than anything. She’d never told him; it wasn’t like he needed to know anyway. It wasn’t that he was insensitive, just that he was ignorant, and it was no one’s fault but her own.

But there was another wrinkle. When once, any alignment in their locations would merit an automatic yes from Ari, she wasn’t too keen on seeing Nic this time, not while Los Santos had Michael for her. She never thought much about monoamory, but somehow, this affair with Michael was enough for her, at least for now. Besides, it would defeat the purpose of all the tests she’d done.

The tests! See, there’s a practical, logical reason to stick with Michael, she told herself.

She sent a terse text back to Nic.

_Hey. :) Not anymore, sorry. :(_

It was a little white lie; what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

Ari reminded herself to buy a bouquet of fresh flowers, a yearly ritual she kept to honour her mother. Because of the transient nature of her career, she was never able to find purple irises, her mother’s favourite, until this year’s stint in Los Santos. They were most likely imported and inflated, but it didn’t matter; all she cared about was that they were here. 

Maybe it was all the sunshine and blue skies, maybe the right amount of time had already passed, or maybe it was both. But for the first time in seven years, she felt a little glimmer of hope today.

* * *

“You really gotta wear that?” Michael asked as Ari stepped into his car. She was sporting a long brown wig.

“Protocol.” Ari shrugged. “I can’t always look the same. Less likely for my cover to be blown.”

“So who are you today?” Michael asked wryly.

“Bianca Ravenna’s fine. She’s a yoga instructor who also found a job as your assistant.”

Ari didn’t think there was anything alarming about the Vanilla Unicorn being the location of Michael’s meeting. It was perfectly common for all sorts of businesses to be conducted at Los Santos’s strip clubs after all, particularly among the clique of Vinewood’s elderly men. It was also a location she was familiar with herself—part of protocol. And she had to admit, she was getting a little turned on by all the attention the ladies were showering on Michael as they entered.

“Which ones here have you banged?” Ari asked him matter-of-factly as her own eyes trailed after a waitress with turquoise-dyed hair took their drink orders in their alcove. She also asked for an order of jalapeño poppers.

Michael crossed his legs in a figure-four position, spreading out his arms behind him on top of the backrest. He’d all but kicked the habit, but memories of this old haunt made his mouth water for a smoke. He smirked. “I never kiss and tell.”

Metallica’s “King Nothing” started playing in the club; and a gruff-looking man, dressed in a white T-shirt that still bore the straight creases from being folded in its retail packaging, barged into the alcove with them. Somehow, he smelled like a mix of overripe bananas and a cotton candy-scented body spray that Binco carried. Why and how was anyone’s guess. Ari knew from Michael’s file and from her visits to the club that this was the infamous Trevor Philips. Of course he’d come in to say hi to his old partner.

“New shirt,” Michael noted as Trevor took a seat beside him.

Trevor nodded with feigned humility. “I dress to impress.” He took a quick glance at Ari across him and turned his attention back to Michael. “So, what's got your panties dropping, huh, pork chop?”

Ari was hoping for Trevor to get over the old friend/gracious host role quickly in case Michael’s Vinewood contact finally dropped by, until it dawned on her that Trevor _was_ the contact Michael planned to meet. A sinking feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Was he fucking serious?

Michael cleared his throat. “Trevor…this is my assistant, Bianca. Bianca, this is Trevor.”

“No, she’s not, and she’s not,” Trevor sneered. “She’s the one calling the shots here.”

Both Michael’s and Ari’s postures stiffened. She was loath to admit it, but Trevor Philips was one of the few personalities that could faze her. Was it the mercuriality, the rap sheet, or something else? Ari made a split-second decision, just as she had with Michael’s son, to drop her cover as a way of earning trust. She knew she couldn’t win every battle, but she went into each one hoping to. “My name’s Ari.”

“Normally, _Ari_ ,” Trevor emphasized her name, “I’d tell every woman who hangs on this fat snake’s arm that she can do better than him.” Trevor gestured towards Michael, who rolled his eyes. “But in this case, one snake deserves another.” Turquoise Hair returned with their orders, plus an extra beer for Trevor, and Trevor immediately popped a steaming hot cheesy jalapeño in his mouth.

Ari kept her cool on the outside, but she was taken aback. It was rare for anyone to be hostile to her on first glance. Instead, she said coolly, “You better not charge me for that pepper you ate.”

“Trevor, you gotta see this.” Michael tried to deflect Trevor’s dissenting attention away from Ari by going right to business. Trevor’s words rang in his mind, but he would have to get back to that later. Michael opened the folder he’d placed on the table and pushed it in front of Trevor, who immediately fell into a stunned silence upon reading the top of the page. “I thought of you right away,” Michael added, “that’s why I decided to go for this project.”

“You’re making an Impotent Rage movie?” Trevor’s voice was a pinched, squeaky whisper.

“Well, I hope to,” Michael quickly corrected. “First, I gotta pitch to the creators to buy the film rights. I wanna show them that the movie I’m gonna make is gonna stay true to the spirit of Impotent Rage. What do you say if I pitch them a live-action, feature-length Impotent Rage movie?” 

“A live-action Impotent Rage movie?” Trevor echoed, still in a breathy, stunned tone. “I’ve only waited my whole life for one! I knew I could count on Vinewood to be an unoriginal and derivative cash cow!”

“Don’t get your hopes up yet,” Michael cautioned. “For starters, I’m just gonna be one bidder among a bunch of other Vinewood studios, a lot more established heavyweights. I figured we can set ourselves apart with, uh…fanboy passion, and that’s where you come in. You’re gonna be my creative point man on this project. There’s no other person who knows Impotent Rage the way you do.”

Ari kicked Michael lightly under the table for the questionable phrasing, but Trevor didn’t seem to care; he was intently reading the invitation for bids that Michael had handed him.

Michael went on, “And even if I do win the film rights, projects like these can take several years to lift off, or even get stuck in development hell….” 

“Then you better fucking get it,” Trevor roared, “and get it done.”

For the next hour, Trevor had seemed to forget all about her existence the moment Michael brought up Impotent Rage, and Ari was relegated to the sidelines with her beer and snacks—this certainly was a scenario that she was not used to, being ignored. 

While it first looked like Michael and Trevor were bickering between themselves, until she realized that they were actually discussing in accordance all this time, like an old married couple. She wasn’t sure if she found it amusing, annoying, or arousing. She also noticed that “King Nothing” was playing in a loop since they’d entered the club, which made it awkward for the dancers who got requests for tableside dances—it wasn’t exactly the best song choice. But she had an inkling as to why it was playing in a loop.

She wondered why Michael had asked her to come along—he’d said it was so she’d get a glimpse of Vinewood operations. What if it was also his weird, misguided way of letting her into his world, especially by introducing her to Trevor?

“I have to go.” Ari mumbled as she inched her way towards the end of the seat. “I think there’s plenty for you to discuss on your own. I have another appointment on the other side of town. Traffic, and all that.”

Michael’s face fell as she looked at her. “No,” he said, but Trevor was simply glaring wordlessly at her. Both of them could see through her half-assed, passive-aggressive fib. “Ari, come on, please stay.”

She smiled at them half-heartedly as she left the table.

Michael pointed upwards to one of the overhead speakers. “Think your sound system is broken. Why don’t we take this to your office?”

Trevor grunted in exasperation as he stood up and led the way past the private room, and through a door that led to the dancers’ dressing room, and down a hallway that connected backstage, and finally into the manager’s office. He fiddled with a remote in his pocket and changed the song to a more strip club-appropriate one—a moody, sexy Massive Attack number. The hypnotic sampled bass line and electronic beats thudded faintly through the walls of Trevor’s office.

“So, what have you been up to?” Michael asked as they entered. He made an exaggerated show of brushing dust off the couch before he sat down on it. He was silently thankful that it was completely dry.

“Oh, the usual border runs,” Trevor replied. “Close call with some feds in Mexico. Made a killing over spring break.”

Michael did not want to know if that was meant to be literal or figurative.

Trevor leafed through a magazine that was on his desk. “So…. I was looking through the girls’ magazines to look for something to beat my meat to or to wipe my shit with. …And then I see your ugly, fruity face in here.” He then held up the open _Vain_ magazine to the spread that featured Michael’s portrait, with all the clever lighting, angles, make-up, and editing to make him look as acceptably Vinewood as possible. “What is all this?”

Michael struggled to think of how to explain any of this to Trevor, without necessarily cluing him to the fact that he’d allied with a government agency once again, given how splendidly Trevor took to the first time Michael struck a deal with the feds. …Yeah, that went over _really_ well….

“You’re in a fucking reality show? You? And your fucking family?” Trevor huffed, stabbing at one line in the article.

Michael blinked, because it wasn’t the bit of information he’d expected Trevor, of all people, to hone in on. “Oh….Yeah. It’s Amanda’s thing though. Actually, it’s going to be a show about four Rockford Hills housewives, and Amanda’s one of them. The way she talks about it though, you’d think the show was about her exclusively…. It premieres this week, I think.”

“Tracey called me a couple of months ago. Said you and Amanda had separated. I was like…fucking finally! …Did that not last long?”

“Lasted all of a week,” Michael said wryly, “then she moved back in because her producers told her to. My PR guy just told me to roll with it. They worked in some storyline in the show that she’s divorcing me.” 

“Storyline?” Trevor asked, disappointment dripping in his tone.

“They want it to be a will-they-won’t-they thing, just to have viewers invested in the drama every week. Did you know all these reality shows are scripted, huh?”

“You don’t say,” Trevor said in his most uninterested voice.

“And alcohol. They get us all sloshed so we can all be screaming at each other when we have to be on camera.”

“But your family doesn’t need alcohol for that,” Trevor said matter-of-factly, and Michael made a face at him in response. “So, will you?”

“Will I what?”

Trevor paused and gestured with his hands. “Divorce.”

“Trevor, for the last fucking time—”

Trevor simply shrugged. “I’m just saying. Take a step back and look at the big fucking picture. You can’t use the kids as an excuse anymore; they’re both fucking adults. I don’t know why you’re such a masochist, that’s all.”

Michael sighed. To tell the truth, it really wasn’t the first time he’d ever considered the thought, and he’d always known Trevor’s stance on Amanda. “It’s really fucking expensive,” he said unconvincingly, remembering Agent Norton’s plight.

“Yeah, but even with all the money in the world, you’re still a miserable, insufferable asshole. You weren’t always like that. I should know.” Trevor went over to the refrigerator to grab a fresh pair of beers, popping the tops off with his bare hands, handing a bottle off to Michael. After a healthy glug, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you weren’t as miserable or insufferable today. When you were talking about your movie. It was…it was just like old times. The old you. …Almost. You were as happy as a pig in shit.”

Michael had to make sure he wasn’t hearing things. Trevor rarely had any nice things to say about him—even with the pointed choice of idiom—so if he did, he damn well meant it.

Trevor went on, “You look all glowy and less liney too. Laying off the death sticks helped.”

Michael narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Did you also come from an ayahuasca trip, T?”

“I’m calling it like it is. Last time I’ve seen you this smug and happy was when we barely escaped the cops after that job near Vice City and partied on the beach with those two blondes and a brunette—or was it two brunettes and a blonde?”

“It was two brunettes and a blonde. I should know,” Michael said wistfully. “Oh, to be 23 again.”

“That was then,” Trevor said. “Maybe you’ve finally found a new calling, at least something that’s going to make you less of an asshole in your middle age.”

Michael raised the tip of his beer bottle towards his old running buddy. “And that. Is the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

“Don’t get used to it, sugar tits.”

A silence between them passed, but it was an organic, comfortable one. 

Trevor had known it since the moment Michael and that woman entered the club today, but he still owed them some modicum of respect before he brought it up. “You’re fucking Snakette, obviously.”

“What’s your problem with her?” Michael was more curious than annoyed at Trevor’s unexplained beef. He’d always considered Trevor a good judge of character, even if he would never give Trevor the satisfaction of knowing about it.

“I don’t trust her. I don’t trust her at all, I don’t trust her one bit, I don’t trust her with _you_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s all right,” Michael scoffed. “The hell makes you think that?”

“She used to come into the club in all sorts of disguises, you know. Pick up some pathetic, married losers sometimes. Bad for my business because that took attention away from my girls, you know.”

Michael shook his head. “That’s not her.” Ari didn’t seem like the type to pick up men in a bar…until he recalled that’s exactly how they’d met. Still, it was easier to keep up with the denial. “You’re mistaking her for someone else.”

Trevor shrugged. “Hard not to notice a woman who comes into a strip club on the regular. Even if she tries to disguise herself. All the wigs and the eyeliner.”

“Susanna Hoffs! That’s it!” Michael snapped his fingers and pointed at Trevor, his face lighting up. “That’s who she looks like with the long wig today. Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles. Aw, man, I did have a big crush on her. Still do. I always I hope I run into her in town, especially since she is married to a film director….”

Trevor never quite understood why Michael frittered away his time and energy on unattainable celebrities and his celluloid reveries, when there were so many other recreations that could instantaneously be had, tasted, sniffed, touched. Never understood, but in time, he’d come to accept that this was who Michael was.

“She’s also one of the reasons, isn’t she?” Trevor grunted. “Why you’re all glowy? What, is she into some sort of kinky sex or something?”

Trevor had meant it as a mere facetious remark, but Michael’s off-beat, abrupt “No!” and his beet-red face were too glorious.

“Wasn’t that hard to guess since she came into the club a lot,” Trevor shrugged indifferently. “What is it? Does she have a fetish for those giant tentacle dildos, because I can tell you where she can get some….”

Michael was shaking his head, rubbing his brow with his thumb and middle finger. “ _Trevor_.…”

The two men were startled by the office door bursting open, and the strippers on duty—Peach, Infernus, and Nikki, all hastily dressed—and the turquoise-haired waitress filed in.

Trevor rose to his feet and approached the girls. “Whoa, what are you ladies doing in here? I thought we set boundaries here, you know?”

Susanna Hoffs emerged from behind them. “Philips,” Ari called in a firm but calm voice, closing the door behind her before she approached Trevor. “Who wants to kill you today?”

“I mean, who _doesn’t_ want to kill Trevor?” Michael yawned loudly, stretching out his arms and legs.

Trevor shrugged indifferently. “The Vagos? I did just strike a deal in Mexico. Or the IAA even.”

Ari glanced towards the door. “I was waiting for my cab outside, and then I noticed three Vagos-looking types just hanging a few yards away before they walked in. I didn’t like any of their body language while they were loitering, so I went back in. I told each of the girls to tell the other patrons the club was closing and to discreetly head backstage to this back exit before any shit goes down. …I don’t care what they do to you or what you do to them, but I can’t have innocent women—” she hesitated and turned to Peach, who nodded encouragingly, “—caught in the crossfire.”

Two gunshots rang from inside the club, and the girls shrieked. A muffled yell of “Philips!” was audible within the office. Ari opened the back door to usher the girls out, where a cab waited. “Go,” she said with urgency. 

Trevor turned to Michael. “I know this ain’t your world anymore, but I sure could use a sharpshooter at the moment. What do you say, Daddy Warbucks? Care for one last hurrah?”

Michael felt an itch in his right hand and the rush of adrenalin through his body. “I ain’t got a piece on me now.”

“Shouldn’t we call the cops?” Nikki exclaimed.

While Trevor and Michael looked at her as if she might as well have said they all swim in a vat of gasoline and set themselves on fire, Ari patiently explained, “There’s no time.” She peeked out the doorway. “Shit, only one cab came.”

Michael tossed her his car’s key fob. “Take my car. You take the rest of the girls home. I’m sure they want to get far away from here.”

Ari looked at him for a second and nodded. She’d since lent her coat to Peach, revealing that she was wearing a hip holster all this time. She reached for her compact pistol and handed it out towards Michael. “Here. You can make good work of this.”

Trevor snorted as he lay his eyes on the Saturday night special. “The fuck is that?” Somehow, he had produced a heavy revolver from seemingly out of nowhere and was holding it out towards Michael too. He turned to Ari. “I appreciate you looking out for my girls, I do, but that fucking peashooter is not going to cut it.” 

Michael threw Ari a sheepish, apologetic glance as he took the larger revolver from Trevor.

She rolled her eyes and smirked, stashing her pistol back in her hip holster. She’d expected him to rebuff her weapon—men and their phallic symbols. “Don’t die on me,” she said with a playful smile before running out the doorway. She knew he was going to be okay.

“She’s a fucking fed! You’re fucking a fed!” Trevor yelled at Michael. “I knew it! This is so fucking typical of you, Townley. You only ever form relationships with people with the intent of finagling something good for you in return.”

“No!” Michael lied as a force of habit. “I mean—okay, she’s a fed. That’s what you picked up on, you happy now?”

The yells of “Philips!” grew louder, accompanied by the pounding of footsteps.

Trevor turned to Michael. “Sooooo, when is your next visit gonna be?”

“Of course a visit to House Philips winds up with me getting looped into one of your stupid feuds,” Michael grumbled, pronouncing “house” and “winds” with a stereotypical Canadian raising.

“But you like it,” Trevor pointed out. “You know I’d defend your cinemas in a heartbeat if they were ever attacked because of my concern for our friendship.”

“That’s not concern for our friendship. That’s more of your insatiable bloodlust,” Michael said wryly.

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. What matters is that I’ll defend you from anyone who tries to hurt you,” Trevor huffed as he took cover by the wall. “Even if they’re feds. _Especially_ if they’re feds.” 

Michael sighed as he disengaged the safety. He cradled the gun, relishing the feel of the cold metal as it heated up in his hand, the sensation springing him to life, like reuniting with a crazed, long-lost lover. But, he reminded himself, this was also the life he wanted to get away from.

Trevor was right once again, even if it pained Michael to admit it. There were some things in his life that he had to let go of, even if they had been of his own choosing. It had to happen soon. 

But not today.

As Michael took cover by the desk, his eyes fell on the open magazine of his feature piece that Trevor had shown him, now he spotted something reflected in the overhead light that he didn’t see previously. “What’s with the dried-up stains?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I made a few minor edits in the prior chapters:  
> \- Put Michael's age to the lower end, since that's what everyone else (on AO3) seems to be using--if his birthday is indeed January 13, he should be 46 in this story  
> \- Changed the Big Bad's code name to the Cardinal, but no one cares about this MacGuffin mission anyway, not even Ari. :)
> 
> 2\. I got the idea for Michael quitting smoking post-canon, first mentioned in chapter 2, [here](https://youtu.be/hguZScc2aCo?t=1167), while the [sins video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xnx1j4rvG4Y) gave me the idea that Trevor is infallibly the window to Michael's soul because he calls it like it is lol.
> 
> 3\. Next update may take a while, but I swear I will finish this story--my goal is to do it by year end, but IDK anymore--even if there's no one left reading.
> 
> 4\. If there are any violent reactions to anything brought up in this story so far, feel free to let 'em at me; I am not afraid to edit or delete entire chapters.


	12. If She Knew What She Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd say her values are corrupted  
> But she's open to change  
> Then one day, she's satisfied  
> And the next, I'll find her crying  
> And it's nothing she can explain
> 
> No sense thinking I can rehabilitate her  
> When she's fine, fine, fine  
> She's got so many ideas travelling around in her head  
> She doesn't need nothing from mine  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To jog your memory, if you wish, I supplied a quick recap below for a few details that will pop up in this chapter. Recap doesn't work for mobile, sorry.
> 
> ! Previously on _Light Sensitive_....  !

“Yeah, I still got it,” Michael screamed as the football left his fingertips with the requisite amount of torque to send it arching high and long. It was a fucking beautiful day, he thought, and he was glad that Ari had dragged him outdoors, to a park in Rockford Hills. The sky was a pristine blue, and the bright sun brought out the rich greens of the trees and grass around the park. Days like these, among the best that Los Santos had to offer, made it all a little more bearable.

Eventually, Ari did want to change up the routine of their indoor nighttime trysts. She asked Michael to teach her how to throw a football, and he was only too excited to take on this favour.

“Your arm by itself won’t generate enough force,” Michael explained to Ari as he mimed thrashing his right arm forward. “You gotta get the rest of your body moving in the same direction. That’s where you’ll get your power.” He stood with his body almost perpendicular to his target, and he demonstrated each action while he spoke. “Swing your hips and shoulders forward in one smooth, brisk motion; that then gets your arm moving. And then, you can follow through with a flick of the fingers.” He then took her long fingers and placed each between the football’s laces. A regulation-sized football was too big for most women’s hands, but Ari’s just barely made a proper grip. “Now just try holding it. Get comfortable with it.”

There was never a day when Michael hadn’t thought about what could have been, if his football career had panned out the way he’d hoped. He’d foolishly thought that maybe he actually would have completed college, but deep down, he knew he would have gone pro as soon as he became eligible, maybe even stir up some conspiracy to be a one-and-done like in basketball. He would have been a star quarterback with at least one ring. He would have been a hero in so many people’s eyes, instead of hiding in the shadows like the criminal he was. These were but fantasies, made-up stories in his head, frivolous escapes from his past that was now set in stone. There was nothing he could do to change his history.

But how many people got a do-over on their eulogies? How many people got a guardian angel telling them she believed in second chances and gave them the perfect platform to prove it?

 _You’re not real,_ Michael thought to himself sadly as he whipped the ball from behind his right shoulder. Ari shrieked while she ran after the far-flung football that had sailed right over her head. Her long, lithe legs, now getting their time to tan in the sun, were too perfect to be real; therefore, Ariadne Luna and this whole insane deal were merely figments. But he’d also be foolish not to take advantage of what she was offering him, even on a short-term basis. And while most men would have been contented with a pretty broad who was content to spread her legs and keep her yap shut; ironically, to her own detriment, it was her evasiveness about her personal life that only piqued Michael’s curiosity even more. Human nature.

“You make it look so easy,” Ari groaned, and she meant it. Michael’s movements were effortless and surprisingly graceful, almost like he was simply tossing a ping pong ball instead of a cumbersome leather egg. She could watch him throw all day, she thought. Fortunately, it seemed like he was having fun. His enthusiasm was contagious, and two grown-ups on the wrong side of their carefree years, tossing a football on a field, made for a comical scene.

“Been a long time since I did this,” Michael said, slightly short of breath as they sat on a blanket while the sun set, after an afternoon that was mostly spent running after Ari's wayward throws than actual throwing. “Back when they were this tall and they didn’t have such mouths on them. Been ages ago since they were gullible enough to want to spend time with their old man. Tracey had quite the arm. But they don’t make girls play football in school.”

Ari smiled at him sadly. “I always wished my parents wanted to play ball outside with me. Father was too fussy; he needed to protect his hands. Mother was too busy saving the world….” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself.

Michael stayed silent while she did, waiting for her to recollect herself or to continue speaking. 

Instead, Ari took the football and leapt to her feet, running away from him. “Come on, slowpoke, you think you can catch me?” she hollered.

“Who are you calling a slowpoke?” Michael yelled, immediately taking up the gauntlet. Here, she was at it again; every time she’d toss a crumb to him about her personal life, she’d find some way to weasel out of talking about it any more.

Ari was sprinting away fast, thanks to her long legs, but she was no match for Michael’s innate athleticism. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, both of them knew, and when he got to within a few inches behind her, he leapt forward and grabbed her legs in the air, tackling her to the grass.

He suddenly remembered how gimpy her ankles were, afraid of getting her hurt, but when he heard her musical laughter, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Ari rolled over on her back to look up at him. “Didn’t expect you to be that fast. I thought you’d be tired by now, old man.”

“You tire me out more in the bedroom,” he smirked, crawling forward to hover over her.

Her eyes widened, and her lips formed a demure “O” in mock prudery. Michael laughed heartily at the irony; and oh god, was he ever so handsome with the five o’clock shadow. She inhaled deeply and took in his scent that was all uniquely Michael, his signature musk from an active afternoon in the sun was intoxicating to her. Damn pheromones. This was all chemical, that explains it, Ari thought, as she darted up to capture his lips.

The significance of this kiss wasn’t lost on him—Ari _never_ initiated their kisses unless it was for foreplay…unless she was expecting to do it in broad daylight, out in public on an open field, was she? His mouth widened in a smile through their kiss as he chuckled at the thought.

“What’s funny?” she asked as she gently pulled away.

He decided to keep that observation to himself, because he knew she was going to deny that she started a kiss for once. Instead, he said, with a sheepish grin, “I made sandwiches. Just peanut butter and jelly though. Please don’t knock my chef skills.”

“Sandwiches are always better when someone else makes them for you. It’s true,” Ari said moments later when they returned to their blanket, a half-eaten sandwich in her hand. “I can never make peanut butter and jelly as good as you. Best combination ever.”

“Just as good as chili and cinnamon rolls,” Michael agreed.

“Wait… _what_?” Ari shrieked, laughing suddenly. “No! Are you serious? Ewww. Is that a Midwestern thing?”

Michael frowned. “Hey, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. It was one of the few highlights of my shitty childhood. Having a hot lunch at school….”

Ari’s face fell immediately. “Oh god. Michael. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to….” She reached for his shoulder, but he jerked himself away, turning his back on her and burying his face in the empty space between his folded knees. She felt awful; and for once, she was at a loss on how to approach a situation. What was happening? She prided herself on having all the answers all the time, even when it came to dealing with people. It was part of the job after all. She gulped, devastated at having hurt his feelings. “Michael…I’m sorry.”

And then, she heard smirking, as Michael’s head resurfaced, a wide grin on his face.

Ari exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “You fucker,” she said, her voice trembling a bit.

There was a devilish tinge in his laugh, all that he needed to indicate that he’d gotten her good. “No, but seriously, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

She leaned into him, resting her head on the side of his firm, thick bicep. “I hate you.”

He picked off a blade of grass that had been in her hair. “How’s the operation going?”

She didn’t answer. Her silence worried him; he wasn’t used to this from her. 

“Ari?” Michael said.

She took a deep breath and shook her head, pressing her head harder into his arm. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Oh god, it’s my fault, isn’t it?” Michael said, panicking a bit. “I haven’t been….”

“No no no,” Ari interrupted, “you’ve been the best thing, the only thing that’s going right in this operation. You’ve been perfect. It’s all on me.” She sighed. “This is it. I’m starting to accept that this is the end of the line for me. If I don’t solve this case, it’s over for me at the agency.”

“You can’t say that. Your plan isn’t over yet,” Michael said firmly. “All we’re waiting for now is for your Cardinal to contact me.”

“Still no phone calls or emails for you from dubious females, right?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“What if she’s already called you, and you don’t know it yet?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I think I can tell when a con artist, impersonating a film producer, is calling me, for sure. I’m not that gullible nor am I one of those attention-starved old Vinewood men….” Ari snorted, and he tickled her hard but briefly above her hips to get her to shut up. “…But is there anything else I can do to help?”

Ari sighed. “Nothing. Nothing else.” She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Just keep being warm and cuddly.”

He chuckled slightly, but he said in a straight tone, “You can’t continue harbouring your burdens all alone, you know.”

“Yes, I can. You just watch me,” she grunted. 

Michael sighed, but he knew her troubles were far from over. If he could only get her to open up to him….

“Ariadne? Ariadne Celestine Luna? Hi!”

It was as if the bubble around their solitude had burst, and they turned to the direction of the voice, only to see a woman standing a few feet away. Ari paused for a few seconds, shocked, and she scrambled to her feet to run to the woman, nearly trampling on Michael in the process.

“Fatima! Fatima Noor! Oh my god!” Ari and the woman embraced one another, and they both started shrieking happily, assaulting what was left of Michael’s one good ear.

“I thought that was you playing football with your husband, but I wasn’t sure,” Fatima said, “but I couldn’t resist. I really had to make sure that it was you!”

“Oh….” Ari struggled to think of how she could tactfully explain that she was just being publicly intimate with a man who was married to someone else entirely, so she didn’t. Maybe another day.

Michael, being the annoyingly suave charmer that he was, had already caught up to the ladies and held out his hand. “I’m Mikey,” he said simply, neither confirming nor denying Fatima’s assumption as they exchanged pleasantries.

“How have you been? I didn’t know you lived in L.S. You’re not on any social media,” Fatima said.

“I don’t. I’m not. I’m just here for work,” Ari said. She nudged towards Michael. “Fatima’s an old friend from international school over in France,” she explained to him, “Oh god, we were what? Eleven, twelve…?”

“No one wanted to be friends with me because I was… _different_ from everyone else. I wore different clothes, I ate different food, I prayed differently,” Fatima was telling Michael, “no one, except Ariadne. She just about saved me. But I had the last laugh because of all the awesome sleepovers at the ambassador’s mansion. Those were fun times.”

“Yeah, until my mom’s mission ended, and we had to pack up and leave for her next mission. Yet again,” Ari said.

“We were crying non-stop, inconsolable for days, before you had to leave Paris,” Fatima said wistfully. “I’d heard about your parents in the news. I am so sorry,” Fatima said. “The Daily Globe’s obituary on your mom did her work justice. And I thought your dad getting a tribute from Phil Collins was cool.”

“Wait, what?” Michael turned to Ari, his eyes wide. “Your dad knew Phil Collins and you never told me?! How could you?!”

“They were just in the same circles. It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Ari shrugged. “But it was a touching tribute.”

The phone in Fatima’s hand started ringing, and she groaned. “I ask my husband to take care of the kids for thirty minutes, and he calls me every two minutes with a question. I might as well head back while everyone’s still alive.” She rejected the call and gave her phone to Ari. “There’s a lot to catch up on. Give me your number. You should come over. I live up in Vinewood Hills. I can’t believe you’re in L.S. and you never told me!”

“Been busy,” Ari said feebly, as she entered her number and let her phone ring. She exchanged hugs and kisses with her old friend again before they parted ways. She paused when she studied Michael’s expression after he’d been watching her all this time. “Can you wipe that smug look off your face?”

“Na-uh. Your old friend gave me a lifetime of material to be smug over,” Michael smirked. “Your middle name is Celestine, for one. I oughta start calling you that now.”

Ari rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t remind me. My parents were cornballs. Figures why I can tolerate you.” She yelped and laughed when he gave her a light pinch on the hip to retaliate, and when he collected her in his arms, she instantly melted into him, burying her head in his warm chest and wrapping her arms around his body.

As they held one another, Michael didn’t reveal all his cards to her at once, but he was secretly thrilled that he’d finally found some confirmation, through her childhood friend, that what he’d surmised about Ari Luna was true, that he wasn’t just imagining or idealizing it. Once upon a time, she was wholly capable of caring, of letting people in. But with time came change and departure, and big love can beget great pain. The puzzle pieces were falling into place, but it was enough for him to know that the ice queen had a soft, gooey centre beneath the hardened shell. Now, if she only knew.

* * *

Ari blushed and smiled when she saw the vase of colourful tulips—vivid bulbs of yellows, peaches, pinks, and purples set against the verdant green leaves—brightening up her desk at the IAA headquarters. She never expected Michael to be a flower guy, so this was a nice surprise. She read the card that was affixed to the vase, and the blood immediately left her face.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Those words and that voice scared Ari out of her wits, as she turned around to face away from her desk. Royce Taggart was back. And still completely healthy, all visible appendages intact, much to her disappointment. She could have had her own office by now, but alas, here she was in the bullpen with the proletariat, completely exposed to invasions of privacy like right now.

She tried to keep her voice even, as the thudding in her heart died down. “Sure, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“I made reservations tonight at Viendemorte,” Royce said, “at Rockford Plaza.”

Who the hell comes up with these names, Ari thought to herself. “I’m not a high-maintenance girl. I’m fine with Up-N-Atom, Taggart.” There had to be a deliberate reason for Royce to choose a high-end restaurant like this, one that she knew Michael also frequented. She checked the calendar app in her phone to see if Michael had plans tonight—none, completely blank. She let herself relax a bit.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Royce said calmly, “I may not have De Santa’s ill-gotten gains, but I’m no slouch.”

“Why mention him? Are you jealous? Are you trying to go toe to toe with him?” Ari asked in a mocking tone. “You really don’t have to, you know. There’s nothing going on between us, like there’s nothing to be going on between you and me.”

Royce’s blue eyes flickered for a split second before he spoke, “Actually, I came over here to tell you I think your work so far has been impressive,” Royce said. “He looks good. Really good. Not surprised his wife’s a stunner too. Your plan of throwing everything at the wall and hoping something will stick might actually pay off.” He held up his phone to her, displaying a picture of Michael and Amanda smiling, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, on the red carpet of a recent movie premiere. Michael sported a classic tuxedo, and Amanda wore an evening gown of skin-tone tulle and strategically placed lace appliqués that bordered on softcore porn. Ari thought it to be tacky. She would choose a more elegant gown, one that—holy shit, why was she going there?

And she had to admit, Royce was right. Michael looked impressive, with his hair grown out a few inches over his nape and expertly slicked—which Ari secretly preferred and never told him. Amanda looked like a cookie-cutter Vinewood executive’s wife, which on the surface, to most people, was the sheen expected in tabloids. Together, they looked like any other Vinewood couple. It was the perfect fodder for her operation to bait the Cardinal after all. Instead, a flush simmered on Ari’s nape, which she grabbed with her hand to suppress it.

Royce turned the phone screen back to him. “I should print and frame this picture for your desk to remind you of this achievement,” he murmured. “Impressive? Yes. Effective? Jury’s out on that one.”

“Would’ve been cheaper than the flowers,” Ari said coolly.

“Oh, no, you seeing the flowers was worth the price,” Royce smirked. “Pick you up at eight.”

Ari wanted nothing more than to take the vase and hurl it at the back of his skull, but her superego kicked in, not to mention there were already a few colleagues looking their way. Besides, she shouldn’t let Taggart get to her like this. That would mean she actually gave a shit.

“You look wonderful tonight, Ariadne,” Royce commented later that evening when he picked her up. “Real elegant.”

She entered his white modern Coquette and strapped on her seatbelt. She’d changed into a navy blue maxi wrap dress that did look classy in spite of it coming off a fast fashion rack, with a long thin silver chain necklace between her décolletage. Ari did like to play dress-up. 

She said nothing in response. She shouldn’t let Taggart get to her like this, after all. 

The last time she got into a car with Royce, he’d taken her to the hospital those few months ago. She hated that she was reminded that he could be a decent human being, if he chose to be. Ari cast a quick sideways glance at him. The hue of his eyes were more on the baby blue side, much paler than Michael’s or Nic’s; and she had to admit Taggart wouldn’t be so bad-looking if he wasn’t just…Taggart.

It was one of those snooty, grand chandelier, pressed linen tablecloth restaurants where one could buy a bottle of wine for the cost of her month’s pay check; but for Los Santos’s elite, it was just any other dinner place. Ari had always wanted to try this restaurant; and even if Royce was the last person she’d wanted to take her here, she figured she might as well make the best of the situation.

As they were led to the bar to wait for their seats, Ari said, “Why don’t we get some aperitifs?”

Royce looked at her for a beat, undoubtedly trying to analyze her motives for her every move, before he said, “Sure.”

She asked for a Vesper martini, stirred, not shaken; and he asked for a rye old-fashioned.

“I always liked your sense of humour,” Royce said, holding up his old-fashioned glass towards her. “A Vesper martini? Really?”

She glared at him from above the rim of her cocktail’s crystal coupe. “I’m not trying to be funny,” she said stiffly.

“I’d thought at first you’d be wasted in Vinewood,” he said. “Then again, I should have expected the ambassador and the rock star’s daughter to fit right in the lap of glamour. What countries did you live in again?”

“The deal was just dinner, Taggart. Not conversation.”

“The deal was just dinner. Not aperitifs,” he retorted.

She fumbled for some cash from her purse and slammed a $20 bill on the bar, sliding it towards him.

Royce laughed as he slid back the bill towards her. “You could order a bottle of L’Esprit de Bourgeoix here and run me dry, and I wouldn’t care, Luna. But I know you’re not going to.”

“I’ll get the Tournedos Rossini, with the biggest hunk of foie gras you got, and extra truffles please,” Ari said with a wide, flirtatious smile to their dashing waiter, who looked like he could be the leading man in a Latin telenovela, when they got to their table much later. Los Santos, and Rockford Hills in particular, always did have the best-looking bar and restaurant servers—actors who up and left their hometowns for a shot in Vinewood. She turned her eyes to Royce, now with a stoic expression on her face. “They gave me the menu without the prices.”

“I’ll have the crispy skin striped bass with potato purée,” Royce murmured before sending off their waiter. He turned to Ari as he took a sip of Chablis. “So, what’s your favourite band? Singer? I’m looking for new music recommendations. My playlist is getting stale.”

She didn’t respond, staring right at the tines of the fork she was dragging across her empty dinner plate, creating a screeching sound.

“Where’d you learn to play guitar? Did Dad teach you? …No, I don’t think so. I’m guessing you taught yourself. I think that’s even more impressive.”

Ari now focused her concentration on her steak knife, running the serrated edge around her plate.

“…Because I’m guessing daddy wasn’t there all that much, since he was away for work a lot, and mommy had to be tied to her diplomatic missions.”

She was avoiding looking at him because she was trying not to kill him in a very public setting.

Royce leaned in forward. “And we all know how a rock star behaves while he’s on the road.”

“You exaggerate. He was no rock star,” Ari said, keeping her voice calm, but still not lifting her gaze from the knife she was scraping. “He was a session musician.”

“Nevertheless,” Royce shrugged, “there’s a whole lot of daddy issues to unpack.”

Their amuse-gueules were placed in front of them. “Why don’t we skip dinner and small talk and get straight to fucking?” she said, still in a calm voice. “That’s what you want in the end, don’t you?”

“No. That’s what _you_ want,” Royce mirrored her calm tone. They might as well have been talking about the weather. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? When the going gets tough. You just fuck your problems away.” He popped the scallop and avocado ceviche bite in his mouth. Royce winked at her. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer. Very tempting, I’m almost compelled…but it’s not what you need right now.”

Ari forced hers into her mouth, but her mind registered the flavours and textures as dirty sawdust. “What am I doing here then?”

“I just wanted company while we go star-gazing. Isn’t this exciting? We’re in the midst of a veritable who’s-who of Vinewood right here. Look, isn’t that Milton McIlroy by himself, in the beanie and shades in the corner? And there’s Lacey Jonas with a fifty-something Russian oligarch who, news flash, is tied to Petrovic’s puppet strings. …And look who just popped in, it’s that up-and-coming film producer Michael De Santa. He’s done fuck all, but I’m hearing so much hype about this guy.”

She hoped Royce was bluffing, but _of course_ this was why he’d dragged her out here for dinner. Ari only needed to look through her peripheral vision towards the direction Royce fixed his eyes upon, and she could feel Michael’s presence by the host’s podium near the entrance. That tall, stocky build and impeccable dress sense were so familiar to her by now, but a part of her hoped that she was mistaken. “So?” Ari murmured, hoping her voice remained calm. “I don’t care if he sees us.”

“You may not, but he will,” Royce grinned as he waved towards the direction he’d indicated Michael was at. “That’s what you wrote in your profile of him, right? Prone to fits of anger and jealousy, after that time he got on Martín Madrazo’s shit list over the dumbest misunderstanding ever. I told you. I’ve always been a big fan of your work.” 

By reflex, Ari also turned her head and indeed caught Michael staring back at her and Royce, a crestfallen look on his face. It didn’t last long, as the attractive hostess called for his attention, leading him to automatically break out in a charismatic smile as she led him to his table, on the opposite side of the restaurant from them.

“He got over it really quick.” Royce shrugged. “No, I shouldn’t be surprised. That detail was in your report as well. What do you think he called her right there? ‘Sweetheart’? ‘Gorgeous’’? ‘Beautiful’? You said it yourself in your write-up, the pet names are a tactic cheaters employ so they don’t slip up by using a wrong name when they’ve got multiple partners. Whoopsie. Which one does he call you?”

“I don’t care if he’s here with his wife or some sixteen-year-old girl. Or boy,” Ari lied—of course the latter was going to perturb her, until she identified who Michael’s dinner guest was as he was ushered to Michael’s table. The two men grinned and shook hands, and Ari felt like she was in a bad (or erotic) dream. Even from twenty yards away, Ari perfectly recognized the other man—so distinguished, so magnetic, so familiar, even more than Michael. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks.

It was Dominic Proulx.

She slowly turned to Royce, trying to get a read of him and what he knew about her dalliances with Nic, but Royce didn’t seem to react, unless it was a foolproof ruse on his part. Odd how Lester Crest had figured out who Nic was in her life, but none of her IAA colleagues did.

Not wanting to give anything away, Ari affected an air of indifference in front of Royce, saying, “So, is that what you’re trying to do here? You’re piling on him now? To show yourself as the better alternative? Even if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t—”

“Smart people can make dumb decisions. I would hate to see you fall into that trap, since you’ve been on a roll of them lately.”

“Mind your own fucking business, Taggart. My personal affairs aren’t affecting my work.” Ari grabbed her napkin from her lap and threw it on the table. This was the perfect alibi to make an exit before Nic had the chance to see her in the restaurant. “I’m leaving. This is not fucking worth it—”

“I used to believe so, but I stumbled upon Operation Mockingbird, whose records are well above my clearance level. But I found ways. That was after many months of pulling strings, eating ass, and poring through hundreds of thousands of documents,” Royce paused when the waiter arrived with their mains, and Ari was forced to stay in her place. When the waiter left, Royce went on, “It was only supposed to be America’s biggest intelligence coup this side of the Cold War. In my mind, there was only one operative whom the powers-that-be could have assigned it to, their star operative. And when star operatives fall off the face of the earth, it’s either they’ve been captured or they’ve gone rogue.”

Instead of moving forward with her intended departure, Ari froze in place. Her body was bolted to the chair, it seemed, as a haze filled her mind and she stared at him in trepidation.

“‘Mockingbird was a covert action operation that ran from 2011–2012, intended to collect evidence on a foreign top secret eugenics program, Misericordia, whose existence was continually denied by its government. The intelligence resulting from Mockingbird was meant to coerce economic and diplomatic policies with the United States and to underline America’s supremacy in international intelligence. Undercover operative Siren successfully infiltrated the host country’s capital and turned Whisky, a prominent Cabinet minister, into acting as an agent,’” Royce uttered from memory.

“Stop it,” she mumbled under her breath.

“‘Misericordia was a concerted effort to capture quote-unquote “undesirable” people in society and enforce sterilization to preserve racial and genetic purity. Individuals with genetic disorders, mental illnesses, physical disabilities, and leprosy were among those detained in secret camps in far-flung rural areas.’”

She had a hard gaze fixed on Royce as she fought back tears and kept her lips shut in a tight line.

“‘The program was spearheaded by a military physician, Finch, who survived an assassination attempt in August 2012 when an explosive in his vehicle failed to detonate. Military investigators quickly determined that Whisky had planted the bomb intended for his colleague. Siren abruptly exfiltrated. The mission was aborted when, on November 25, 2012, in the military’s presence, Whisky died by ritual suicide.’”

Ari stifled a sob that got stuck in her throat, and she hacked out a few painful coughs to ease the discomfort. She swore she could taste blood.

Royce went on, “‘Subsequent audits concluded that Siren made specific actions without sanction, which led to the endangerment of the operation.’ Hmm. That is the sanitized version without actually saying the R-word, isn’t it? Kind of saves Siren from any serious blowback, like dishonourable discharge, by the skin of their neck. I think it was Siren who influenced Whisky in a sort of folie à deux that they could take on this secret program themselves.”

“You horse fucker,” Ari whispered as she seethed, tears pooling at the corner of her eye until she dabbed at it with her napkin.

“That’s a fine steak you’re not eating, Luna.” Royce took a bite of his food, unfazed, chewing slowly and then swallowing. “Siren was—is—a stellar operative. But intelligent people can make stupid decisions.”

She felt tired, her body feeling spent all of a sudden, as her surroundings blurred in her vision.

“You were in love with him, and he was with you, wasn’t he? The under-your-spell, run-through-walls-for-you type of in love,” Royce said, in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Like this one is.” He nudged his head towards Michael’s and Nic’s direction. “It’s not hard to tell.”

Ari kept her head low to hide the tears that were now streaming down her cheeks, dabbing at them with her napkin.

Royce shrugged. “And it’s hard not to. You’re the kind of person who’s on a mission to protect the greater good, at all costs, even your own. And I admire that.” He took a sip of wine. “You’re strong, I know, but even the toughest diamond has its breaking point. You can’t carry this weight all your own. You’ll die trying. You need help, Luna. Or at least…someone to talk to, a confidant.”

“You mean you?” she spat, her sorrow now turning into defiance.

“I mean…yeah, why not…. I know the life. I know the tradecraft. There’s a lot I can relate to. Like my agents falling in love with me.” Royce sighed and turned to look at Michael and Nic’s table again. “…He doesn’t deserve you. You can do so much better. You deserve better. I hope for your sake it’s just a phase, a masochistic penance. I don’t understand it.”

Ari knew Royce was referring to Michael, but in her mind, he could have also been talking about Nic. “You obviously don’t understand it. It’s just the usual work perks. You of all people should know. There’s nothing beyond that.” 

Royce didn’t address what she’d just said and went on, “You’re also idealistically, to a fault, the type of person who sees the good in all people, that everyone is worthy of being redeemed. It’s why you’re here with me, for one. I have no fucking idea how you see any of that in De Santa, but at the very least, you should start believing that about yourself as well.”

She didn’t answer, still staring at the uneaten cold, brown mess on her plate. She left her food completely untouched even as Royce polished off his plate and their table was bussed.

“Dessert?” Royce calmly repeated their waiter’s question when Ari didn’t answer or regard anyone else. He dismissed the waiter and asked for the check. After he’d paid, he turned to her and said, “Do you know that guy your boy is with?”

“No idea,” Ari lied.

“Looks familiar.” Royce frowned. 

She hoped her face or body language wasn’t giving anything away; if Royce didn’t know now, she better not help him figure it out.

He snapped his fingers. “I might have seen him in the news or something. Dominic Proulx. He’s one of those guest analysts. You don’t forget a name or a face like that. Why don’t we go up and say hi to the two lovers?”

Alarm bells rang in Ari’s head at Royce’s choice of words, and now she really couldn’t figure out if Royce indeed knew and was keeping coy…or if it was just mad coincidence. God, she really hated this. It wasn’t Michael that she’d been trying to evade tonight, but Nic. She’d been worried why she worried so much about Nic finding out about her little lie. Wasn’t the whole point of Nic that she didn’t have to care about relationships? Or egos? Or feelings? Especially feelings.

“Sure, I’d like that,” Ari said through gritted teeth, not wanting to show Taggart that she was struggling to contain the whirlwind of emotions inside. “Let me freshen up.”

She’d been so fixated on the sight of Michael and Nic laughing and conversing animatedly, like they were already steadfast friends, because of course they would. They shared at least one thing in common, didn’t they? …She hadn’t noticed that Royce was holding her by the crook of her elbow, and somehow, she didn’t shake herself loose. 

The two men’s laughter faded when she and Royce approached their table, and she could feel Nic’s eyes boring through her. She tried to avoid his gaze, but Nic was just so…there. She darted a quick glance at him; and she knew, felt, for sure that he’d recognized her. Nic chose not to say anything, but Ari could read the disappointment all over his luridly symmetrical face.

“De Santa,” Royce said with a chipper tone and saccharine smile that made both Ari and Michael want to strangle him. “Fancy meeting you here. Just thought we’d come up and say hi. We were just leaving. We’ll see you at the office tomorrow? I gotta warn you, there’s a chance we both might come in late.”

She noticed Michael’s razor-sharp gaze hone in to a spot on her jawline, which she grabbed at automatically. It was a wet spot she’d missed cleaning up, a teardrop stained with flecks of black mascara, and Michael lifted his steely glare back to Taggart. Oh god, if looks could kill. She made a quick scan and deduced Michael wasn’t carrying tonight, but still. _Don’t do anything stupid._ She felt the insides of her stomach churn in on itself, exacerbated by the fact she’d barely eaten all night.

Instead, Michael’s eyes crinkled into a smile, although his jaw remained stiff. “Well, you kids run along then. Don’t let me keep you.”

Royce gave a polite, acknowledging nod in Nic’s direction, and Nic nodded back as Ari grabbed his arm and tried to walk as quickly as she could towards the exit with Taggart in tow. She exhaled a sigh of relief as the fresh night air filled her lungs.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Royce grabbed her arm as she asked the doorman to call her a cab. “I’m taking you home. Your home,” he clarified.

Maybe it was the hunger, maybe it was being put through the emotional wringer, but she was too weak to argue.

Along the way, Royce pulled up at an Up-N-Atom drive-thru. “Double hamburger—that’s right, no cheese—grilled mustard onions. Monster Style fries, vanilla milkshake. Actually, make that two milkshakes.” He turned to Ari and noticed her surprised expression. “Oh come on, I didn’t need clearance for that one. It’s what you always get at office group orders.”

She was ravenous, very possibly hypoglycaemic even, so a few sips of the milkshake lifted her mood almost instantly.

Royce walked her to her door with her bags of half-eaten fast food, both of their milkshake cups since discarded. 

“Thank you,” Ari mumbled as Royce held the bags while she unlocked her door. “No, actually, fuck you, you fucking cocksucker.”

“Can I kiss you?” Royce asked.

“Yes,” she said instantly, knowing that she tasted like a burger.

She closed her eyes as he pulled her close, but to her surprise, he held her in a one-arm embrace and gave her a smack on the top of her head. “Good night, Luna. Get some rest.”

The fucking nerve of fucking Taggart to tell her that, when it was he who put her in this state tonight, she thought. Did he not know that November 25, 2012 was the second worst day of her life? Did he not know she had her Mockingbird snafu at the forefront of her mind for every waking moment? And cruelly, occasionally, in stolen pieces of sleep. …Then again, he couldn’t know. No one did. She kept a pretty good front, she believed. But it started to crumble as of late, right after her debacle at the casino…. And as each day passed with an impasse on her current operation, her frustrations mounted, and the facade was slipping. …Maybe Royce was right, that her personal affairs were interfering with her work.

Nevertheless, she mumbled one last “fuck off” out of his earshot as she watched his figure retreat down the hallway.

Ari quickly pulled out her phone as soon as she locked the door behind her. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to do so in the presence of Taggart and his annoying super-spy senses. She wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to seeing a slew of messages or an empty lock screen, but either option would have disappointed her.

She had no new messages.

She had been _sure_ Nic would reach out to her after seeing her tonight—laugh off her little lie as a whoopsie, because she was a cute little minx like that, and want her in his bed regardless. Boys liked girls who played hard-to-get, right?

Ari was staring at Nic’s number on her screen, her thumb hovering over “call” before it dropped. It had always been Nic who initiated their conversations, so this was going to be a first. She listened to the ringing on the other end before she heard a recording of Nic’s smooth, buttery voice telling her to leave a message.

She hung up. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to tell him, or how she was going to explain this. _Oh, yeah, I just flew back in today, surprise?_ She stared at her phone again, vainly willing it to light up with Nic’s name. But it never did.

Her doorbell rang, and her heart leapt with anticipation. Was that Nic? …No, it couldn’t be, he never knew where she lived; she would always go to him. Or she hoped it was Royce, doubling back and changing his mind about her proposition. She had been planning on vibrating her clit into oblivion until she passed out, but no toy, not even her girthiest silicone dildo, could take the place of a real, live penis. She would gladly take him now.

“Ari.” Michael’s distinctive rasp came through from the other side of the door, and he was the last option among the people Ari wanted to see now. When her mind filled with the reason why, all her prior thoughts went out the window. She unlocked the door to let him in.

“Oh, Agent Ku Klux Klan is so lucky I saw him drive out of here as I came over here,” Michael murmured. “I came to check if you were all right. Did he make you cry or anything? What the hell were you doing with him tonight? Were you on a date or something?”

Ari was stunned that Michael had the gall to be mad, when she knew that only _she_ had the right to be mad between them. “What if I said we were? I should be asking you why the fuck you were having dinner with Nic.”

Michael snapped his neck to one side before he spoke. “I told you I needed money for my movies. And that I was going to do it the legit way,” he said in as innocent a tone as he could muster. “So I plan to enlist Dom…I mean, Nic, to help me with my investments. I love him. He’s fucking hilarious, you know? I invited him for a round of golf over at the club….”

Typical charming Michael won Nic over in one dinner when she didn’t even know Nic played golf in all the seven years she’d known him. “Of all the financial planners and investment bankers in Los Santos, you had to seek out and wait for Liberty City-based Nic Proulx to come to town.” Ari felt hot air escape her flared nostrils. “I mean, really? …Goddammit. Nic wasn’t supposed to know I was still in Los Santos. I told him I’d left. And now he knows, and it’s your fault.”

Michael’s eyes widened at her. He couldn’t understand why she was so incensed with what he’d done when he thought she’d done something far worse. “How the fuck was I supposed to know that? Are you seriously blaming me for not keeping your lie straight? You’re out of your mind.”

“Why did you even think about meeting Nic? Why Nic?” she yelled. 

“You wouldn’t give me anything, so I had to look into other ways to find out what makes you tick. And I happened to need a money man. Even Lester told me this guy was one of the best…. Look, I just wanted to get to know you, okay?” Michael pleaded. 

“What exactly could you have learned about me through Nic?” Ari asked in an incredulous tone. “That I’m fucking a 58 year old? That I call him Big Dick Nic?” She deliberately chose the facts that she knew would rile him.

Michael had to admit he was surprised to discover that Nic had twelve years up on him when Nic didn’t look a day over 40. Did everyone else find the Fountain of Youth while he missed out? He dismissed the tangent. “We’ve been sleeping together for months, and every time I try to ask you about you, you shut me down, you put up your walls. You fill your mouth with dick so you won’t have to talk.”

“Why can’t you just be contented with that?” Ari wailed. “Most men would kill to have that kind of arrangement with a woman like me. I am every red-blooded man’s dream come true. I just want to fuck, I don’t want any of the other stuff.”

“Why? Why not?” It was an honest question in Michael’s mind. “What if I do want the other stuff? All of it? With you?”

She laughed sardonically. “There’s no fucking point. It’s just a waste of time, waste of energy. We don’t have a future together, Michael.”

“What makes you so sure?” he pressed.

Ari stared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world. “You’re married. I’m leaving.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Michael said, his voice rising. “Things can change.”

“No. It’s the way it’s always been,” Ari yelled.

Michael’s eyes widened as it clicked for him in his head. “Oh my god. That…that’s your kink, isn’t it? With the married men. That’s how you keep your distance. That’s how you keep yourself from getting hurt. …Because you always leave. That’s the life you’ve always known. All your life.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she growled.

He gulped. “You can break the cycle. If you choose to.” Was he really saying that just for her?

Ari said nothing as she glared at him, her lips trembling as she fought back tears for the nth time tonight.

“You never had a concussion. We both knew it,” Michael said slowly. “It was your excuse to stay…. But you _wanted_ to.”

“It was two fucking days.” Ari rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Really? Is that what you think of what we’ve been doing? Absolutely fuck nothing? What am I, just a disposable, temporary plaything for you while you’re in town?”

Ari sarcastically clapped her hands in his face. “Good boy. Now you’re getting it. I thought you of all people would be amenable with this arrangement, after what I know of you from your file. The Lothario who’s stuck his dick in half of Los Santos’ hooker population—”

“Whatever you have on me in your file, that’s in the past. Or least, I’m trying to put it all behind me,” Michael sighed. “See, the old me would have smashed Agent Wonder Bread’s cliché choice in sports cars with a nine iron by now out of jealousy and misplaced rage, but I didn’t. …Look, that night you recruited me…when you told me about second chances and bad choices…when I saw your quotes on invincible summers in the depths of winter…it really, truly resonated with me. It’s going to be a Sisyphean task to undo decades of bad habits, but I’m never going to live with myself if I never try.”

“I just told you all that bullshit because I knew you and your fragile, inflated ego would gobble it up,” Ari sniped. “I turn people. I let them see what they want to see. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

“So you must think you’re good at fooling yourself too,” Michael said smugly. “But you’re not. I may know you better than you know yourself—”

“Do you now? Well, let me tell you something you don’t know—I killed my previous asset. Because he was in love with me,” Ari yelled, her chest heaving, her blood pumping furiously in her head. “I’m a fucking killer. How do you like me now?”

Michael slightly reeled back in shock at the revelation, but his eyes softened. “No. You’re lying. You can’t be. I _know_ literal bloodthirsty killers. You’re not one of them.” He stepped in closer to her to try to reach out, but she quickly took a step back to keep her distance. Michael chose to stand down.

Ari crumpled to the floor in a heap, devolving into a flurry of sobs. “Get out,” she managed to utter through her weeping. “Get the fuck out.”

Michael squatted down on the floor to try to get to her level. “Ari,” he began. 

“Get the fuck out before I kill you too,” she said dangerously.

* * *

Of all the devastating things that Ari had just told him, the worst had to be when she’d invalidated her recruitment spiel to him.

“She doesn’t really believe that,” Michael said out loud to himself in his car, the engine idling. “She was saying that to hurt me.”

But he still remained unconvinced. What if she’d really meant what she said? Any hope Michael felt over rehabilitating himself and his life was yanked out from under him like a rug.

It was foolish and unrealistic anyway to believe this woman was going to be the answer to all his problems, that she was going to help him turn his life around. She was exactly like him after all—opportunistic and manipulative. And a murderer too, apparently. Maybe they really did belong together, he thought wryly.

Besides, all this self-improvement was so fucking tiring. If she didn’t believe in him having a shot at a second chance, why should he care at all?

“Hey, gorgeous,” Michael called from his open car window when he’d caught the eye of a busty redhead who was smoking a cigarette on the Vinewood Boulevard sidewalk, not too far from the Doppler Cinema. “Hop in. I own the theatre, you know?” He wasn’t sure why he needed to bolster the invitation with that particular flex, but it worked, because she moved immediately.

“Had a rough night, sugar?” Red purred when she climbed into his car, shoving her tits, which were bursting out of the top of her tube blouse, right in his face. Oh, he was looking forward to motorboating those babies, something he’d missed since he stopped being intimate with Amanda. Fuck you and your flat chest, Luna.

“Can I bum a smoke?” Michael asked. He took a long drag from the cigarette she’d handed him, filling his lungs with tar and nicotine and all that burning goodness, but it had been so long enough since his last cigarette that he started coughing from the now-novel sensation. He handed the cigarette back to her, and she flicked it out the window.

“Hotels cost an extra $100,” Red informed him, “but I’ll so make it worth your while.”

Michael was tempted by the suggestion, but he just wanted to be efficient. “I’m sure you would, sweetheart, but that ain’t necessary.” He put the car in drive and steered towards a dark, hidden alley beneath some apartment buildings, away from the lights and the bustle of the night life, only two minutes north of the Boulevard. This was part of a special personal map he kept in his head. He turned off the engine and the headlights.

She pouted. “Why can’t we have gone into your theatre? If you own it like you say?”

“My cleaning crew just joined a union. I wouldn’t have heard the end of it if the place got messed up this late at night,” he said flatly. “Show me your tits.”

Red shoved down her top. She was no nonsense and all business, which wasn’t exactly his preference, but it would do. Her hands reached out to undo his fly, but by the time she was about to fish his cock from his underwear, his phone started ringing.

“Who the fuck….” he said irritably, casting a glance towards the illuminated phone in the cup holder, but his heart stopped when he read the name on the caller ID. He turned to Red. “I’m sorry, beautiful, but I gotta bounce.”

Red frowned, pulling up her top. “Forty.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “For what? Are you shitting me?” He ruffled through the bills his wallet, still able to discern the cash in the dimness, and counted out two $20 bills anyway. Red took the money and left.

He was thankful the phone was still ringing when he was finally alone again in his car, still in this dark alley. Michael took a deep breath before he answered the call. “Hello, Laura?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I fear there's too much and nothing going on in this story all at once. If you happen to see any sense in here, I salute you.
> 
> \- My late grandmother had her own personal dictionary of unintentionally hilarious terms that have been running jokes in my family for decades, and among them was calling In-N-Out's Animal Style "Monster Style". :D


	13. Tears Dry on Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I should just be my own best friend_   
>  _Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still around with me and this story--even if you'd rather not comment, or you're just here for the WTFery of it--please know that I love you and I appreciate you. ♥︎ ~~Of course, I love you more if you do comment.~~

Laura Young’s voice was exactly as Michael had remembered it, with the characteristic lilt and twang of the streets of Dukes. Her first phone call was her telling him that she’d seen him on a late night rerun of a reality show, and that she was excited to discuss a potential project with him.

“You’re a handsome man,” she had gushed on that first call. “You remind me of my first husband. Ah, if only you and I weren’t already married to other people….”

Michael was reminded of her proposition back at the Oriental Theater, and he felt his ego swell. He knew he could have that effect on women—there was no need to cry over one broad who told him she didn’t want him. _Go fuck yourself and every fucking dick you see, Ari Luna. That’s what you do. Go prolapse over Nic Fucking Proulx’s perfect fucking face or good luck getting off on Agent Agent’s micropenis, if he can get you there. Slut._

In retrospect, it was silly of him to have placed Ari Luna on a pedestal and believe she had his best interests in mind. All she was, was an insincere two-faced cunt who toyed with him. Maybe he’d conflated the sex and her offer to save his Vinewood career with having feelings for her—but now, he knew better. But in fact, he didn’t need her anymore when someone of Laura Young’s renown and influence was paying attention to him. After all, Michael had only taken up Ari’s offer to work with the IAA to get himself back in Vinewood’s good graces, and it was done—Michael had gotten what he wanted. He could very well tell Agent Luna and this flight of fancy of an operation to fuck off, but it wouldn’t be right. He had been successful at his job—yes, that old job—because he was a man of his word. Hell, if he was able to set aside his differences with Trevor to work together on the Big One, his differences with Ari were surmountable. No reason he couldn’t act professional with someone he’d slept with.

Come to think of it, he never really thought their relationship through either. Michael had held out hope that the status quo would stay in place forever—that Ari would give in to him and change her mind and remain in Los Santos as his piece on the side, all without upending his marriage to Amanda. As long as all three of them got what they wanted and they were on the same page, right?

And if Ari said their torrid affair didn’t mean anything, then he ought to take her word for it. That was a relief, because he had no idea what Ari’s taste in jewelry or designer bags was. He’d been planning to tell the girl at Vangelico to repurchase whatever he’d gotten Amanda the last time….

Amanda. Ariadne. Amanda, Ariadne. What was it with him and that letter? Fucking A.

“I gotta know,” Michael said to her during this second phone call that he took by the poolside one late night, “why you started calling yourself Laura Young. You were Simona Sciarra when you got your first acting job in _The Don_ as the Don’s daughter.”

She laughed. “Don’t remind me. I was only 16 at the time, and I really didn’t want to act. It’s obvious, isn’t it? I didn’t want people to think I only have a career in Vinewood because of my father’s name. Not to mention, I was absolutely horrible in _The Don._ I think it turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I thought all the critics would accuse my father of nepotism, no matter how well or poorly I did on screen.”

“Nothing wrong with a little nepotism, if you ask me,” Michael assured her. “If a golden opportunity is there, you take it.”

“So you know what I’m talking about, right?” she said excitedly. “This project I want you on. It’s a splendid opportunity. It’s going to be huge. It’ll make your career, Michael. I know you’re up for it.”

This was better than getting hard, Michael thought to himself. He cringed when he heard the harpy fight between his wife and daughter coming from the inside of the house. The camera crew was taking a break from shooting these few weeks, thank goodness, so this argument was sadly not staged. Amazing how the timbres of their voices hit all the right notes to wake the dead. 

“Yes,” he exclaimed to her. “I’m all in.”

* * *

Ari was convinced that she _did_ suffer a concussion. It had to be true. After all, that would perfectly explain why she was brain-damaged enough into seeing some sense from what an erstwhile bank robber and her douchecanoe of a colleague had told her.

Royce Taggart had beaten the siren at her own game, and it was a sobering moment. She was getting soft all right; this was why she hated being emotional—it weakened her, threw her off her good senses. It helped that he knew all the same tricks she did, but for whatever reason, she had been ill-prepared for his barbs. He’d kept her guessing about his motives for the past few months, and all that it did was keep him around, worming his way into her head like the little maggot he was. Taggart the maggot.

She ran a search query on Eyefind, looking for therapists in Los Santos, and stared at her screen. It was something. But she didn’t feel like taking that big of leap now, not yet. She swore she was going to do it in the next city she moved to, for real.

Michael’s accusations, however, were harder to accept. She always knew she had a thing for married men because she could hold them at arm’s length, all right. But that she did so so she wouldn’t get hurt? God, he was so off-base. Stoicism was her calling card.

Music was her usual solace, but now, turning to it was out of the question since it was something, maybe the defining thing, that she had in common with Michael. Now every song, every lyric seemed to remind her of Michael, especially if it was an artist he also liked. Once, while she was trying on clothes in a Suburban, Phil Collins’s “Against All Odds” began playing on the store’s loudspeakers, and she’d bolted out of the dressing room before she realized she was in a state of undress. She had to quickly throw her own clothes back on before trying not to run out too fast that it looked like she was shoplifting. 

She couldn’t play guitar, especially not the one Michael had given her; so she stashed that in her closet, next to her go bag. She didn’t feel like singing either.

“I gotta do other stuff that doesn’t involve peckers in my face,” Ari since decided, and she vowed to say yes to the next social invite she got.

The Fates had a sick sense of humour, it seemed, because that turned out to be a co-worker’s good old-fashioned bachelorette party. If the larger-than-life poster of a nude male model didn’t get Ari’s attention upon entering the hotel suite; perhaps the array of colourful suction cup dildos, props for a game of pin the cock on the jock, would have. She looked past a number of her co-workers gathered around a beefcake of a stripper, to glance at the party fare, whose centrepiece was a dick fountain cake, which was exactly as the name suggested. Ah, the follies of youth.

“Sneak peek at the circle of hell I’m headed to,” Ari mumbled to herself.

“What’d you say?” Karen handed her a frozen margarita in a plastic cup and a straw with a dick-shaped end.

“Please remind me I shouldn’t sleep with the stripper,” Ari said instead. She fished out the straw from her drink and stuck it in Karen’s own cup.

“Don’t sleep with the stripper. He looks like gyrating herpes.”

“Thanks, K. You’re a peach. Cheers.” Ari nodded as she and Karen clinked their cups. “How’ve you been? Are you allowed to tell me where you came from?”

“Montreal. You’d love it there. It’s Paris without the pickpockets and dog poop. And they put gravy and cheese and maple syrup on everything. We should go together some time. How’s it going with the moneyed mercenary movie mogul?”

“Hah. Clever.” Ari frowned at the reminder of Michael, but all he was was someone she worked with, wasn’t he? She had to keep telling herself that. She glanced over at the stripper shenanigans on the other side of the room, where their co-workers were now racing to lick whipped cream from the stripper’s body. “Uh…it’s kind of a long story. Were you planning on joining in on the fun?”

Karen followed Ari’s gaze and smirked. “Nah, my salad days are over. Let’s let the kids have their fun. We should probably warn them about the herpes, though….”

Ari pulled her friend over to one unoccupied corner of the hotel suite and, with a fair amount of trepidation, began to tell Karen about her affair with Nic.

“You were sleeping with a 58-year-old?!” Karen cried.

“See, this is why I never told anyone. And he was 51 when we met,” Ari said defensively.

“You never told me your mom died that time,” Karen said in disbelief. “I was in LC too, and you never came to me. You’d only told me well after the fact. What the hell, Ari!”

“I didn’t know what to think or how to feel, okay?” Ari said regretfully, and she segued into her night with Royce and seeing Nic and Michael together.

“You actually gave Taggart a chance?” Karen exclaimed. “I thought you hated his guts.”

Ari hesitated. She couldn’t quite tell Karen about Mockingbird because…well, it was classified. How Royce had managed to uncover it was a damn impressive feat, and Ari had to grudgingly tip her hat. “It’s complicated. And maybe he’s not so bad, okay?”

“‘Not so bad?’ Has your loathing of him boiled over to the point you actually like him now?!”

Ari sighed as she wrapped up the rest of her story. “And I know I wouldn’t have been in this position if De Santa wasn’t married. Actually…I wouldn’t be in this mess if I’d only stored your name properly in my phone, for fuck’s sake. God, I’m an idiot….”

“Did you not think FBS is jealous of BDN?” Karen asked. “Why else did he have dinner with him? It was to scout the competition.”

“I know BDN is Big Dick Nic, but what’s FBS? Fichael Be Santa?” Ari asked with a straight face.

“Full Body Suit,” Karen deadpanned in return.

“Ah. Well, he has no right to be jealous. I was with BDN first,” Ari said stubbornly. “Besides, why should he be jealous? It’s not like there’s anything going on between Full Body Suit and me….”

Karen looked at her friend, trying to keep her own straight face for a second, but eventually broke, bursting out laughing the next.

Ari glowered at her. “What?”

“God, Luna. For an intelligence officer, you can be so unintelligent sometimes,” Karen said in exasperation.

Ari buried her face in her hands. “Ugh. So maybe I do know, okay? Maybe I’ve always known.”

Karen began, “You’re in lo—”

“Shut up. Don’t say it. I _know_. I’m just…I’m just trying not to confront it because I hate everything about it, you know? I…I lose my sense of self. It consumes me. It shatters me. It destroys me. Everything about it sucks. I…I’m scared of what’s happening to me.”

Karen didn’t say anything immediately. When she spoke, she wrapped an arm around Ari’s back and handed her a bottle of water with the other hand. “There you go. This is a start. You’re being honest. …Well, I think someone just earned herself a slice of cock cake.”

“Fantastic. Not too much of the buttercream balls though….”

*

Ari now felt like such a social butterfly as she took up her old friend Fatima’s offer for lunch at her Vinewood Hills home. In the same week!

“Where’s Mikey?” Fatima asked after greeting Ari.

Ari grimaced, as this was one of the things she disliked about the whole coupling practice. She knew it was an innocent question on Fatima’s part and no malice was intended, but wasn’t it enough that she was here? Why make a big deal of the other’s absence?

“He couldn’t make it,” Ari said simply. 

After a delicious home-cooked feast by Fatima’s husband, they spent a few hours of getting one another up to speed about their lives. Ari disclosed that she was an intelligence officer; not verboten, in spite of what movie clichés would let people think, although she did have to endure the tired “if you tell us, you’ll have to kill us” line from Fatima’s husband.

“So you’ve never been married? Not even a relationship?” Fatima asked, surprised, after Ari had answered her question about her own love life. “But I know you well, my friend. You could add so much value to a man.”

“I know,” Ari said in a nonchalant tone. “I’m just not sure how much value a man could add to me.”

And eventually, Ari told Fatima that she was having an affair with a married man.

Fatima had a disappointed look on her face as she processed what Ari had said. Ari had always known Fatima possessed old school romantic values in contrast to her own libertine ways, but Ari always welcomed the virtue of a counter perspective—something her mother and a multicultural upbringing had instilled in her.

“You always did march to the beat of your own drum, Ariadne,” Fatima said with a disappointed chuckle, understanding but not completely accepting her friend’s behaviour.

“His marriage has been failing for years,” Ari added, trying to soften the blow. She never really cared what most people thought of her…blame it on nostalgia, but Fatima, the sister she had and lost, was a rare exception. “He might as well have been de facto separated.” She deliberately failed to mention, that she knew from surveillance, that he did try to save his marriage not too long ago. “But that’s nothing to worry about anymore. It’s over.” She shrugged. “I mean, it was always going to be temporary, only while I remained in Los Santos.”

“You know, my husband and I thought we’d be in Los Santos temporarily too, for the two years of my contract,” Fatima mused, “but I don’t know, it does remind me a lot of international school. It’s a melting pot. Our mosque is on the same block as a synagogue and a church—I think that’s wonderful. There aren’t too many places in the world like this. The kids love the beaches. The winters are mild, too mild. The traffic is crazy, and some parts of town are iffier than others, but it’s not a bad place to be, to live in.”

“It’s all right,” Ari shrugged, taking a sip of minty iced tea, also homemade. This respite from alcohol, even while involuntary, was also very welcome.

“Where are you off to next, then?” Fatima asked. “After your assignment here is over?”

“I don’t know. I have no plans lined up. I’ll decide when I get to that point.”

“What about home? Where do you live these days?”

“Nowhere. And everywhere,” Ari admitted. “I live wherever the job takes me. If I’m not journeying, I’m not moving, I’m not growing...I don’t have a reason to live, don’t I?”

“You may be right, but a journey doesn’t always have to be about moving from place to place physically, you know?” Fatima said. She held her overlapping palms above her heart. “You can have your journey right here, within yourself.”

*

But Ari still felt restless, and she signed up to join a ghost-hunting expedition she found online. She wasn’t as interested in the supernatural, just the part where they get to climb up Mount Gordo and stay overnight, but she was fine with her horizons being expanded. Who knows, maybe this ghost could teach her a thing or two. Mountains were always her happy place, and she figured meeting new people would help her forget about reality, at least for a while. Ari was content with eavesdropping on the conversations around her, and for the most part, this group of twenty or so ghost-hunters was a merry bunch.

…Except for this bro behind her that kept groping her ass on the hiking trail. And every time Ari turned around to face him, he would pretend to be in the middle of a conversation with his fellow bros. And he seemed to only get emboldened by her dirty looks.

She had the idea to smear urushiol on the rear of her hiking pants to catch him red-handed, but she couldn’t find any poison ivy on this trail. She really wasn’t in the mood to give this asshole the time of day, so she decided on a radical idea.

Ari made her way toward the front of the pack and caught up to a couple named Jay and Jace, asking, “Hey, guys, is it all right if I ask for some help?”

“Sure beans, but only if you do one thing for us,” Jay, the bearded one, said, with a stern face.

She was annoyed, and she regretted asking anyone for help, as always. “What’s that?”

“Answer me this—which is the quintessential Elton John karaoke song? Is it ‘Tiny Dancer’ or ‘I’m Still Standing’?” Jay’s tone was serious all throughout.

Ari tried so, so hard to not break. “Trick question. The correct answer is ‘Crocodile Rock,’ of course.”

“Ding ding ding ding. Nailed it! We are at your behest,” Jace, the one wearing a backwards baseball cap, said. “What do you need us for?”

“Is it all right if I can walk in front of you two? There’s this guy that’s been groping me all hike, and I really don’t feel like a confrontation today. I’m this close to pushing him over the cliff, and there are too many witnesses for me to deal with.”

“God, there goes Kev again,” Jay muttered under his breath. “I’m sorry, honey. He’s tight with the founder of this group, or else he would have been kicked out by now.”

“Well, that means this is going to be my first and last trek with this gang,” Ari said. “Although I’m really just here for the hike, and this was the only one that fit with my schedule.”

“By all means,” Jace said, letting Ari slip through. “You know what, we were just thinking about splintering away too. We’d just found out that this was started out as some Epsilon group that goes hiking to write their tracts or to worship their space alien deity or whatever...but then they rebranded as a bunch of ghost hunters to try to get more people to join after Epsilon had fallen out of favour with everyone.”

“Out of favour?” Ari repeated.

“There’s that whole thing with Cris Formage’s wife, Regan, when someone filed a missing persons report on her with the LSPD, just a few months ago,” Jay explained, and Ari confirmed she’d heard about it, but didn’t pay too much attention since she thought Epsilon was a complete scam. “They say it happened after Cris came back from an international trip, and she asked him why he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring anymore. Since then, no one’s actually seen her in public since 2007. The Epsilon people are insisting she’s just laying low while running operations at their top secret high-level base, but it all sounds too fishy.”

“He totally killed her,” Jace whispered. “Before she even hit the big time. She was only in a few TV movies and crime reenactments.”

Ari immediately felt a pang of sympathy for the poor, innocent woman, wherever she was, especially if she was six feet under. 

“Regan Porter? Was she even going to hit the big time? She wasn’t even that good an actress,” Jay grumbled. “Anyway, I think it serves Epsilon right when they lost their tax-free status.”

“Yeah, and when some Robin Hood swindled them out of two mill,” Jace chuckled.

Ari felt proud as a peacock. That Robin Hood was her boy. _Was._ Although he did pocket the money, so…not exactly Robin Hood.

With that, Ari enjoyed the rest of the hike to the top of the mountain with her new friends, who were both production artists in Vinewood. Every now and then, to keep their spirits up through the hike, they’d break out to sing cheesy karaoke songs and show tunes…as long as they weren’t being told to shut up by the other members, they were at it. 

It worked, because by the time they reached the summit to set up camp, their energy and adrenaline levels were still high.

While the others waited for some apparition of Jolene Cranley-Evans as midnight approached, Ari wandered to a ridge overlooking the group, the San Chianski Mountain Range, and the Zancudo River for some solitude from up high. She always did have a soft spot for Southern San Andreas and how its urban bustle was a stone’s throw away from these magnificent mountains, the best of both worlds.

Ari was perfectly fine by herself up here, but she had a creeping thought that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to share this glorious view, to share the stars with someone, every now and then. 

She thought about calling Jay and Jace over, but when she heard the excited commotion going on below, she chuckled and decided they were having their own fun down there. Maybe she would ask Karen or Fatima to do this trek with her next time. It would be even doable in the fall or winter with the proper attire, she figured, since the weather in this part of the world was pleasant, a little too pleasant all-year round. 

Having Michael here would have been nice too if the option was there, but she’d just wilfully made sure that wasn’t the case. A part of her did miss him. But what she’d done was for the best.

Accompanied by the ragged cacophony of shrieks, and with the cool mountain air invigorating her after the arduous climb, Ari sang the chorus to “Jolene” with a smile on her face.

“Oh, Los Santos,” Ari hummed to herself, “will your wonders never cease.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I welcome all critiques, especially if the WTFery relates to OOC or plot.
> 
> \- This Amy Winehouse song samples Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” which is also an alternate title (and song) for this chapter. :)
> 
> \- I won't apologize for all the dick and dildo jokes. Uh, we've all played the GTA games, right? ...Those won't be the last either.
> 
> \- The last few chapters have focused a lot on Ari, but Michael ought to get his turn back in the spotlight soon. I think I've been procrastinating because that means I'll have to write about his family again. Can I notttt. Why do I do this to myself? 😭


	14. Someday We'll Know

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” Michael cocked his head back for a bourbon shot at six in the morning. It had been an early call time, at least for his standards. The production crew preferred these hours for the natural light, they told the De Santas; but Etienne had let him in on the fact that, aside from lushing them up with alcohol and subjecting them to harrowingly long waiting times before shoots, depriving cast members of sleep and food was the modus operandi on reality shows to deliberately stress them out. And stress led to drama. Michael was appalled; he would have never treated his own heist crews that way. Reality show producers were absolute monsters.

“Guilt,” Jimmy offered, half-asleep on the couch, “for being a shitty father and husband.” He mumbled the last phrase before drifting off back to sleep, and it was only by virtue of being on Michael’s right side, that of Michael’s mostly deaf ear, that Jimmy’s ribs and lungs were still intact.

“I don’t know, Dad.” Tracey frowned, stirring the straw in her own vodka and cranberry juice. “You never struck me as wanting to air your dirty laundry on TV for attention. That’s, like, more of something that I would do.”

Michael’s family was still in the dark about his affiliation with the IAA and Agent Luna’s directive to him to participate in the show, and he couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to tell them. Did he not want them to meddle in his business? Was he too proud to admit to them that he was a failure in Vinewood and that he needed outside support to get some clout back?

Meanwhile, Amanda was in the kitchen with the camera crew, having been instructed to lovingly prepare breakfast for the family; and of course, Amanda had no idea how to actually cook. Combined with the ungodly call time and free-flowing wine, it was simply a situation designed to push her to her wit’s end.

Michael had pleaded to his wife to come to her senses, that she was being exploited for shits and giggles because she was cheap and gullible talent, but Amanda accused him of being envious of her success in show business. He knew she was never going to listen to him, even if it was the cold, hard truth. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d lost any sort of credence with her…she had to know she’d married a criminal, right?

“Maybe I wanted to have at a last-ditch attempt at supporting your mother,” Michael said emptily, hoping his children would take his words at face value. “Better late than never, eh?”

“Speaking of support,” Tracey said sweetly, “why can’t you sign me up onto one of your new studio’s projects? …What was it called again? Alabaster? Asbestos?”

“Albatross,” Michael sighed, “as in, the albatross around my neck.”

“Whatever.” Tracey rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you gotta have actual talent first?” Michael asked, trying to deflect Tracey’s interest away from his cover studio.

“Talent for what?” Tracey exclaimed. “It’s pretty easy to act, isn’t it? Actors gotta be someone they’re not. Acting is a lot lying.”

“Oh, no, peanut. Actors perform. They gotta find a version of the truth in an imaginary circumstance.” Michael paraphrased a quote he’d read from a Marlon Sciarra interview. “Acting is pretending.”

“That almost sounds deep, if only I could understand what it means,” Jimmy mumbled.

“Yeah, Dad, why can’t you give me any roles in your movies?” Tracey asked.

Michael was starting to think this was his version of Amanda’s torture kitchen. He sloshed the final shot of bourbon from the bottle, the last one on hand, into his glass. He’d exhausted the whiskey supply yet again. Could he convince Laura Young to cast his daughter in their movie? That might be too much too soon to put Tracey in a Laura Young movie. He also had the Impotent Rage project in his sights, and he’d tried to bring Laura onboard and have her at the pitch so that he had her credence and experience in his corner; but she apologetically opted out, saying she was out of town. But Michael was confident and excited about this other project that Laura was talking about; he might even have to travel out of the country, as Laura Young was an international bigwig like that….

He patted her on the knee. “I’m just trying to find the right movie for you, okay? Hey, whatever happened to that college tuition I paid for?”

Tracey suddenly stood up and walked away. “Oh my god, I think I left my curling iron plugged in! I wouldn’t want to burn the house down, would I?”

It took another two hours before Michael was called to the set—his own goddamn kitchen—for his scene with Amanda. On the counter were platefuls of burnt eggs, toast, and bacon. What a waste of food, just for a two-second shot, if it wasn’t going to end up on the cutting room floor.

He and his wife were retouched for makeup and blocked for lighting and framing. Usually, the talent would be briefed on what they would discuss in the scene, but in this instance, R.J, the showrunner, simply instructed Michael to riff on a question Amanda was going to ask. It shouldn’t be too difficult, Michael thought, as the cameras started rolling.

“Did you ever love me, Michael?” Amanda asked. “Or did you ever only pretend to?”

Any grogginess that Michael had felt left him that instant. Not only did the first question catch him off guard, but her bringing up the topic of pretending when he was just talking about it in a walled off room seemed too coincidental. The fact that they weren’t always seeing eye to eye throughout their marriage was an understatement, but there might have been some semblance of a telepathic bond that formed over the course of a twenty-three-year cohabitation. As much as it defied the logic in Michael’s head, the universe was funny like that sometimes.

Michael stared at her, shocked for a few moments before he uttered, “What the fuck kind of a question is that?” He turned to R.J., who was off-camera. “Did you feed her that?”

“Rolling,” R.J. simply barked.

Michael turned back to Amanda, his eyes still wide in disbelief. “How was he messing with you just now?”

“Answer the question.” Amanda’s voice was monotone, hardened.

How could he answer that question from his wife with four cameras, a production crew, and his children present?

Michael’s shoulders stiffened as he set his empty glass on the kitchen counter. He didn’t answer, although he tried to loosen his neck by snapping it from side to side, as if entering a defensive stance.

“Yes or no, Michael. Did you ever love me?”

“I gotta ask you if you ever did…love me.”

“I asked you first,” Amanda snapped.

Michael knew he could walk off the set and not have to deal with this. But the lights in his face were blinding, and these hand-cobbled leather loafers suddenly felt like lead weights on his feet. And the alcohol on an empty stomach did loosen his inhibitions.

“I did. I did love you,” Michael said solemnly. In his mind, he envisioned the kitchen a courtroom, and the intruders in his home and the infinite eyeballs beneath the camera lens a jury he had to convince. He hadn’t put much thought in the way his words came out, but the choice of tense he’d stumbled upon was telling, if not damning.

Amanda stared at her husband, trying to process what he’d just said, and she fell silent for a few moments before she continued, saying, “Maybe we were _in_ love with each other at the start. But after the romancing, the sex, the passion faded…I don’t know if we ever attempted to _love_ each other.”

“Baby, how could you doubt that? I gave you everything you needed, didn’t I? Everything you ever wanted. This mansion…the tennis court…I built just for you. …All the shopping…I never told you no.”

“It’s true, you gave me everything I asked for.” Amanda nodded. “And even things I didn’t.” She motioned around the kitchen, indicating the mansion. “But I don’t know if you gave me these things because you loved me. …But because you expected something from me in return. Like a debt to be repaid. That’s not what love is about, Michael.”

“Of course I expected something in return. That’s what a marriage—a partnership—is about, isn’t it?” All the issues that Michael had been trying to suppress, deny, forget started to bubble to the surface. The shooting crew around him started to fade from his regard, even the rest of the mansion, until there was only him and his wife in this vacuum. “You can’t always take, but you gotta give as well. And from the way I see it, there was a whole lot of taking on your part, and not a lot of giving…. Or perhaps you were giving a lot of it to…Kyle…or Fabien….”

“Goddammit, Michael!” Amanda cried, professionally using a TV-PG instead of a TV-MA cuss word. “Don’t you get me started on all of your whores.”

“Well, you were one too!” Michael hollered. He hadn’t realized he’d stepped so far into Amanda’s space by this point, and they were both exhaling hot air onto each other’s faces, mere inches apart.

“Scene! That’s the money shot!” R.J cried. “Fantastic line, Michael, that’s pure gold! …Actually, Amanda, you gotta get credit for bringing that out!”

Michael’s headspace snapped back to reality, and the softbox lamps around him faded. Amanda wiped away the tears that she’d mustered and picked up the gin and tonic she’d been nursing.

She beamed towards R.J’s direction. “Think you got what you wanted for the storyline?” 

Michael tried to meet his wife’s eyes, but she was still trying to get R.J’s attention. “That’s what it is now? You rip me open and cut my heart out for your sick entertainment?”

“It’s the least you could do!” Amanda yelled. “After all you put me through!”

Michael stared at his wife with her blonde hair, not sure that he recognized her anymore. He watched the dozen or so people moving about, invading his home; and for everyone’s own well-being—mostly his own because he wasn’t sure if Agent Norton or Etienne Kang could properly cover up a Vinewood massacre—he grabbed his car’s key fob and stormed towards the garage.

“Michael!” Amanda called. “We’re not done with the shoot today!”

“I’m fucking done, so tough shit. I need some air,” Michael snapped back, not turning around as he continued his walk to his car. He reached in his pocket for his phone. He was looking forward to hearing from Laura once again; Laura Young, who was the only person in the world right now who knew his worth.

* * *

Ari scraped an edamame pod between her teeth, popping a bean into her mouth, as she checked her email at her office desk. As she did every day, she browsed through the automated daily log of incoming and outgoing callers on Michael’s cell phone, looking out for anything out of the ordinary. Carlo had installed the logging app on Michael’s phone, with his consent, during his first visit to the Albatross office. Carlo had also suggested to install a bugging app on Michael’s calls and emails, but Ari denied it, believing Michael had a right to his privacy. (Honestly, she hadn’t known that she would wind up being _that_ embroiled in his personal affairs, but at least there was one less thing to worry about now.)

She’d already recognized some familiar phone numbers—mostly those of his family—and glossed over them. All the unidentified phone numbers had Southern San Andreas area codes, and Ari looked each one up in the IAA’s database—one thing Carlo couldn’t automate for her, for security reasons. Nothing popped out from the identification process; nor did Michael have any unusually long conversations with unidentified numbers, which she knew from interviews with other victims was how the Cardinal would engage with her marks. Another day, another dead end.

This was the reality of intelligence analysis; there was always way too much data than was humanly possible to interpret, and time consumed in analyzing more often led to dead ends and useless junk. And god, could it ever be mundane. It was far from the exciting and action-filled job that Vinewood led movie-goers to believe. 

She also trusted Michael to tell her immediately if anything came up, but he hadn’t initiated any of their recent exchanges; and she was only met by curt “no”s whenever she did ask him through text.

Ari rested her face in her hand, rubbing her eyes, bogged by an increasing sense of hopelessness and futility. She couldn’t believe this operation was getting away from her, when she, the Siren, had once led a small group of men and women through a two-week trek through the mountains and harsh desert conditions to bypass militarized borders—who knew a big pack of tampons could be such lifesavers. Everyone was telling her she could crack this case in no time, but it just wasn’t happening.

Maybe Royce was right; this was her fall. She’d been off her game since her previous fatal mission. The distractions she’d been trying were just that, mere distractions that came and went.

But why did she feel so impaired? What was different in this case? Come to think of it, her problems started since Mockingbird. Aiden. She’d failed her mission, and she’d failed him. And she was repeating the same damning mistakes with her current asset. Seriously, what sick joke was the Agency up to, letting her to continue to work like this? But she had to play the cards she’d been dealt; she wasn’t one to fold. They would have to bomb the IAA headquarters and dissolve it completely to strip her of her status as an intelligence officer.

Ari then sullenly studied her bowl of boiled edamame and wished they were chocolate bonbons instead. 

Then, suddenly recalling the curious conspiracy she’d recently learned, she typed in Regan Porter’s name in the database. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to procrastinate on her actual operation by peering into an unrelated case.

The story racked Ari’s mind since it came to her attention. Cults like Epsilon tended to prey on the weak, and her intuition told her that that had been the case with Regan Porter…the typical small town girl who moved to Vinewood to chase her dreams of stardom, only to be met by a rude awakening. She knew that the actors’ union had over 100,000 members, of which only 20,000 would have a steady stream of work. And snagging an acting job could be a gruelling process of auditions, rejections and failed pilots. Etienne had told her that finding success in Vinewood wasn’t always about talent; but tenacity, rewarding those who put in the hard work and the long hours. Most people didn’t possess the mettle to handle the distressing toll on the psyche. It was why drugs, therapists, and even a crackpot pseudo-religion like Epsilon were in vogue as coping mechanisms in this town. 

She also found an archived news article that showed that the missing persons case on her was closed when the LSPD contacted Epsilon and talked to Porter herself. But Ari wasn’t buying it. She didn’t trust the LSPD either, but then again, she also didn’t trust most of her IAA colleagues. Ari had verified that Porter’s union membership was still active, but it could also be a cover-up on Epsilon’s part.

On a whim, Ari placed a call to Epsilon’s Rockford Hills headquarters, posing as a talent agent interested in picking up Regan Porter as a client, to ask for her contact details. Over the phone, Ari was simply thanked for her interest, as Miss Porter was indisposed due to her unwavering commitment to Epsilon’s cause, and that she was away from acting indefinitely. At least Ari tried something.

Ari stared at her phone in her hands, and her first thought was to ask Michael about Regan Porter—he was in Epsilon for a while, after all. Maybe he’d seen or heard something about her. But how much of it was actual concern about a missing woman, and how much of it was an excuse to contact Michael yet again? Ari was reaching, and she knew it.

She was getting antsy as the only times he would reply to her was when she asked him about the operation. Her “how are you’s” to him were ignored.

“Let me be free,” Ari mumbled to herself, not entirely sure why that was the phrase that escaped her lips. 

She pulled up a list of Vinewood luminaries who were known to be affiliated with Epsilon; maybe there was someone else who knew something about Regan Porter’s whereabouts. There was Jimmy Boston, for sure, and that made her recall a time when Michael couldn’t stop laughing when she’d told him about her unabashed love of Jimmy Boston movies and the yearly movie marathon she referred to as her Boston Binge…. 

_Let me go, Michael. I fucking hate this. I’m not myself._ She chugged down cold water from her $50 carnation pink-and-lavender-coloured reusable bottle—the things Los Santos made her do!—and took an angry bite of edamame to clear her thoughts, returning her attention back to the list.

Ari’s heart leapt to her throat when one name on the list jumped out to her.

Laura Young.

She remembered Michael’s fanboy enthusiasm when he’d told her about meeting Laura at the Sciarra premiere, and she felt discomfort in the pit of her stomach. She’d tried to deny it then, but the instance of Laura Young’s name on her screen reawakened that little green-eyed monster within her. 

It was just her saving grace when she recalled that Laura Young’s number had never appeared in Michael’s call logs. 

Ari knew she shouldn’t care if it turned out Michael and Laura were communicating with one another—they were both film producers after all—but she also knew Michael wouldn’t have any qualms about sleeping with Laura, and that made Ari really….

“Luna,” a firm voice interrupted her stream of thought.

Ari gasped and jumped up in her seat when she suddenly saw Royce sitting on the corner of her desk. The jolt from her surprised reaction knocked her water bottle over the edge of her desk, and Royce dipped down and caught the bottle with his stupid super-spy reflexes before it could clatter onto the floor.

“You should take better care of these; these are expensive,” he murmured, studying the water bottle before he put it back down on her desk. “They’re no better than a five-dollar bottle, if you ask me.”

“What do you want?” Ari asked indignantly.

“Your flowers are dead.” Royce glanced towards the vase on the opposite corner of her desk, which now held dried stems and withered petals.

“It’s an accurate representation of what I feel inside.” Ari meant it as a self-deprecating joke, albeit one with a ring of truth around it.

But Royce didn’t laugh. “Are you all right?”

It was Ari who laughed for him. “You have the fucking gall to ask me that when it was you who stirred up all this shit in the first place?”

“All I did was hold up a mirror.” Royce shrugged. “Was there anything I said that wasn’t true?”

She stared at him and struggled to respond, because it pained her to admit it, but Royce was right. He’d only brought out cold, hard facts.

Royce took one look at her face and gracefully alighted from the desk and took her bottle and refilled it at the nearest cooler. He returned and set the now filled bottle on her desk. This time, Royce remained standing.

“Thank you,” Ari said politely, “but unless you have something work-related to discuss, instead of commenting on the aesthetics of my desk, I need you to get out of my face.”

“I do, actually. There’s a reason I stirred up all that shit. I wanted to see how you were holding up because I want to bring you onto Operation Passerine. I wanted to see that you weren’t compromised in any way. I know you passed your psych evals after you got back from your suspension, but I wanted to see it for myself.”

Ari stared at Royce, dumbfounded. “You stir…are you serious?”

“It’s got everything you want, Luna. International travel. Undercover infiltrations. Corrupt and horny politicians to expose. Poor innocent women to be saved.”

This all had to be a practical joke, right? Ari thought, but she didn’t say it out loud.

“What’s going to happen to this operation?” Ari said slowly instead. “Tusk? I’m not done here. The Cardinal is still at large.”

Royce rolled his eyes. “Who cares about old dudes in Vinewood getting their coffers cleaned? If anything, serves them the fuck right for being gullible saps who would rather think with their schlongs. I should give this Cardinal a medal myself.”

“And De Santa?” Ari asked vainly.

“Can go fuck himself,” Royce continued, without missing a beat. “I don’t fucking care about him.”

“I think there’s something bigger going on here,” Ari said, although she wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe she was just saying that so that Royce wouldn’t keep belittling her case. If she could get behind was he had been hinting at, Passerine was certainly more up in the realm of her usual missions.

“You don’t have to give me your answer now,” Royce said, “but I will need it sooner than later.” He glanced over at the bowl of edamame on her desk. “I didn’t know you were capable of eating healthy.”

“It’s Thursday. I don’t eat meat on Thursdays so I can balance out all the junk in my diet. I call it ‘ _jeudi_ veggie’ so it’s easy to remember.”

“Why didn’t you just go for ‘meatless Mondays’?” Royce pointed out.

Ari stared at him again, dumbstruck, before she mumbled, “Stop making me question my life choices, Taggart.”

Royce’s face broke out in a smile for a split second, but he quickly caught himself and put a straight face back on, before he excused himself and left Ari back to her work. 

A few months ago, Ari knew she would have jumped at the chance to leave Los Santos and go on a _real_ operation and save some real people who deserved it, rather than some wealthy blowhards from some impersonating seductress. Maybe she was even on the Cardinal’s side for a while…Royce was right; they deserved it for being oblivious and egotistical.

But something happened to her here, and she didn’t like what it was turning her into.

Not just something, but rather, someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In my defense, this song can qualify as dad music as Daryl Hall and John Oates alongside Todd Rundgren covered it...and did it before 2014, which is another qualifier I use.
> 
> \- This chapter is the most ADD I've ever written, so if there are any lapses in logic or unfinished sentences, please feel free to point them out. OMG, was there even any sense in this one? As usual, I fear there's both a lot and nothing going on.
> 
> \- Planning to drop the next chapter before or by Canadian Thanksgiving ~~since I don't trust anyone else's turkey and my[dressing](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2010/11/classic-sage-and-sausage-stuffing-or-dressing-recipe.html) is fabulous~~, but in case I don't do so by then, I'm so very thankful for you if you've stuck this out with me and made it this far. ❤️


	15. Stuck in the Middle with You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ! Line callbacks (1 minor and 1 significant) from chapter 9 ahead.  !

“I have my answer,” Ari said, after Royce granted her permission to enter his office later that day. It was a pretty shitty office, one with no windows and located at the end of the corridor, but it was Royce’s own solo office, nonetheless. She would have been happy for even an office like this, but the demotion obviously derailed that perk.

Royce blinked. “I honestly hoped you’d give it a couple of days, at least. I’m a very patient man. ...So? Let’s hear it.”

Ari paused, in case she would suddenly change her mind, but she told him the decision she’d settled on, “I’d like to thank you for considering me in your operation, Royce, but I’m going to be staying on mine.”

He looked at her for a beat before his face fell into a frown. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Even if these last two operations didn’t exactly pan out, you’re the finest case officer I know.”

Ari’s heart skipped a couple of beats at the words of praise, but she also felt the bile rise to her throat at the reminders of her aborted and stagnant missions. But, she had to remind herself, Royce Taggart was a conniving son of a bitch—give him the intelligence and the time, and he would know exactly which buttons to push. It took one to know one. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, “but I’m seeing this case through.”

“It’s De Santa, isn’t it?” Royce said under his breath, his voice projected in the small office.

“No, not at all,” Ari said truthfully. “Believe me. I started this operation, and I would like to see it through. It’s the principle of it. I owe it not just to De Santa, but…to those remarkable women in Vinewood I’ve gotten the pleasure of knowing…to those hapless victims—with the exception of a few horndogs—who lost their life savings…to Carlo and Etienne, who busted their.…”

“Fuck Luna your idealism….” Royce muttered.

Ari stopped in mid-sentence, initially confused at the ambiguousness, as Royce had spoken without any commas. But when she peered at her colleague, he was eyeing her body with a darkened gaze. Ari knew that look well—no one needed to be an expert in human behaviour to recognize it. Goosebumps raised on her arm, and she felt an invigorating squirm somewhere between her thighs.

She took a few steps forward at the same time he stood up and walked around his desk, their lips connecting in a furious kiss, with arms entangling around each other’s bodies, a culmination of the peculiar tension that had recently come to a head between them. Royce grabbed her by the buttocks and thrust his groin into hers. She felt the temperature rise inside her, around her, as he worked her mouth on hers; and she let him spin her around to have him push her against the desk’s sharp edge, where her hands flew to brace the force of his body on hers. 

“No!” Ari exclaimed as the cloud lifted from her good senses, reason overriding carnal urges. She pulled her face away and pushed him with all the might she had. “No…Royce, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, avoiding his eyes. These moments of uncertainty were happening more often than she would’ve liked in the past week. Everything was happening so fast. She acted on her survival instinct, making a hasty escape from the tiny office.

Royce stared after the shut office door and slammed his fist on the desk, out of frustration. For the first time since he was assigned this miserable office, he appreciated the fact there weren’t any windows, because he would have smashed all of them to shards.

* * *

Ari sat inside her car, her head slumped against her folded arms on the steering wheel. The only time in the last two hours when she’d left that position was when “Toxicity” played on the radio and she felt like having a cathartic, head-banging shout-along. The _”Disorder! Disorder!”_ chorus was never more painfully apt than it was at the moment.

She’d immediately fled the headquarters after leaving Royce’s office and now found herself parked by the curb on Portola Drive. Although she did head down south first to stop by Smoke on the Water on Vespucci Beach to grab some CBD gummies from Frank. Those would have to wait until after clocking out; she still had some field work to do today.

Royce hadn’t tried to contact her since. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. But she knew that she had played right into his hands. She hated that she didn’t hate him for what had happened between them. She hated that a part of her actually enjoyed it.

Ari sighed and lifted her head from off the wheel. Back to work. Or pretending to work. She still couldn’t shake the mystery of Regan Porter off her mind. Her gut kept telling her to ask Michael about it, even if logic and facts told her that there was no way for Michael to know anything about Cris Formage’s missing wife. The timelines didn’t match, and he’d never ascended to whatever plane at Epsilon would be privy to those details.

Yet, here she was. Parked by his house. Like a stalker. Like when she had surveilled him those many months ago from a distance.

It was easy to remain impartial from a distance. That all changed when she finally inserted herself in front of his face at the Richman Hotel bar. She’d known he could be charming, and she thought she would be able to resist being taken by some trailer trash career criminal. Until he opened his damn mouth, with that damn voice, and she felt that undeniable chemistry. They both did.

And it was why Ari was perplexed that Michael had all but shut her out for this long.

But why wouldn’t he? It’s what she told him she wanted after all. He was doing what she’d asked. If anything, she should be happy with his compliance.

But why wasn’t she?

“Oh, fuck me,” she groaned dejectedly at the realization this was all her doing. 

She found it unusual that Michael would be home during these hours, but that’s where she’d located his phone signal over GPS, where it had been the whole day. He still wasn’t answering her calls, texts, and voicemails asking about Regan Porter (really, that was her only purpose). She was getting anxious, which would happen every time a situation spiralled out of her control or knowledge. 

More than Ari hated herself right now, she hated not knowing.

She decided to finally put an end to this misery. She stood in front of the ornate stained glass double doors and gave one last call to Michael that went straight to voicemail. She liked his voice all right, but instead, every repetition of his voicemail greeting felt like a slap to the face, like his indisposition to her was personal. She rang the doorbell and heard a female voice grunt on the other side. Eva really, really hated getting the door, Ari chuckled to herself.

But any humorous thoughts that Ari had had were immediately shut down when the door burst open, and she found herself standing in front of the absolute last person she wanted to see.

“Can I help you?” Amanda asked, but the tone of her voice clearly spelled out she wanted to do anything but.

_Michael’s wife. Wife. Aiden had a wife too. Had. I made her a widow. Aiden…._

It took Ari a split-second to regain her composure; she had no choice. Ari wasn’t sure why she was initially surprised that Michael would marry such an attractive woman, even if she’d clearly had work done; but of course Michael was the type who was concerned about appearances. 

Ari did come with a plan B. “Hi…it’s Amanda, isn’t it? Is Michael at home? I’m Bianca, his assistant. I came by to drop off these scripts for him,” Ari held up a couple of slush pile scripts that she’d taken from the Albatross office before she had wallowed in her car in despair, “and to talk to him about an urgent matter.”

Amanda’s expression suddenly perked up when Ari said the word _assistant_. “You’re the assistant….” Each syllable rolled slowly off Amanda’s tongue like a poison dart, and with the smile curled on her face, they combined to express a dissonance that made the hairs on Ari’s nape stand on end. “Therefore, it’s _Mrs._ De Santa to you.” She paused and tilted her head back, looking down at Ari past her chin, and grimacing as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul smell. “…Michael’s not here. He hasn’t been here since morning.”

Ari couldn’t mention out loud that she’d been tracking his phone’s whereabouts, of course. “But he told me to come here at this time to meet him.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Check the garage yourself. His car’s not here.”

Ari mentally facepalmed herself—she should have tracked his car’s GPS too. Any competent IAA analyst would have done this as well.

Amanda eyed Ari from head to toe a few times over, not even trying to hide how she was judging Michael’s work colleague. “You’re not his usual type. I never ever thought he’d go for someone so mature or exotic or… _healthy_.”

Even a deaf person could tell that the last remark wasn’t meant as a compliment. “Do you know where he is?” Ari asked. Palpable hostility shouldn’t come in the way of information gathering.

“No, I don’t. Who am I, his assistant?” Amanda snapped, and she threw her head back to exaggeratedly cackle at her own joke.

Ari bit her lip and held up the scripts, resisting the urge to whack her in the face with them. “I guess I’ll just have to give these to him another time. I tried to call him before I came here, but he hasn’t been answering his phone all day.”

Amanda rolled her eyes again. “Oh fuck, that was you? He left his phone here before he took off. I threw that thing out on the patio because it kept on going off during the shoot today. With any luck, it’ll have landed in the fountain….”

That was unusual of someone like Michael, whose livelihood was to be in the thick of showbiz and schmoozing, to leave his phone at home. Ari had to know; she was also one of those types who felt like she was missing a body part if she’d left her phone behind, because her job depended on it. In the rare times that she did forget her main phone, at least she always kept her back-up phone in her car….

The postulation hit Ari like a Pounder truck head-on as a chill ran up her spine. Michael had a second phone that Ari didn’t know about. What else was he not telling her?

The hits kept on coming, as Amanda said in an eerily calm manner that attested to her acute awareness of Ari’s actual agenda, “Nothing personal, but I hate you, and I can’t think of any other person in the world that I despise more than you.”

 _Aiden. Aiden’s widow would hate me with the fury of a thousand suns if she’d known about me. I can never face her._ “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. De Santa,” Ari said stoically.

“I’ll be sure to tell him you came by,” Amanda said with an ominously ambiguous sincerity.

* * *

As was Michael’s wont, he relaxed himself by driving 120 miles per hour on the Great Ocean Highway, with no particular destination in mind, slaloming his way around cars that came in his path like slowly crawling pylons. By the time he got behind the wheel, the alcohol that remained in his system was at that sweet spot where, when coupled with the state of mind his wife had left him in, he felt invincible on the road. He thought about telling Franklin about this feat of his next time they shared a drink together, knowing the kid would have a good laugh at him, a hark back at their glory days as getaway drivers.

He was so glad that Laura called him again today, hyping him up about their overseas project. Lord knows he needed it. She’d instructed him to get himself a burner phone that she could contact him with, and she kept her number private because she was a bit paranoid because of her status. Only she could call him, and Michael made sure he was ready for her calls every time. He had to, it was Laura Fucking Young on the other line.

By the time Michael needed to refuel his mechanical and physiological tanks, he’d found himself in Paleto Bay. He cooped himself up in the Hen House, which was serving daytime meal specials before club hours rolled. They tasted exactly like the frozen bagged meals that Amanda would microwave for him when she actually gave a shit. But of course, no one actually came here for the food.

Alcohol was wonderful and diversified; there was always one for every hour, and Michael decided it was beer o’clock. He was on his fourth pint when another man sat across him in his booth, and Michael felt his hand fly to his right hip before he remembered there was no reason to be armed these days.

“Agent Tightpants,” Michael said through gritted teeth.

A waitress approached the booth upon Royce’s arrival to take his order. “You’re a hard man to find, De Santa,” Royce said after she’d left. “Okay, not really. I did manage to find you.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Tut tut. Trade secret.” Royce winked at Michael.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Michael asked wryly.

Royce didn’t answer immediately. After his bottle of Pißwasser and bowl of bar nuts were placed on the table, he produced a pack of cigarettes and held it out towards Michael.

Michael studied the neatly nestled filter tips, and he’d always thought there were few more beautiful sights. Royce shook the pack to loosen a couple of cigarettes, and Michael took one stick, dragging it below his nose to inhale that roasted spicy tobacco scent that never failed to calm him down, even for the briefest of moments. Since that puff he’d stolen from the red-haired Vinewood Boulevard prostitute, he’d been itching for a whole stick all to his own.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker,” Michael said as Royce threw a lighter across the table.

“I don’t. Never have, never will,” Royce murmured. “But I always carry a pack of smokes and a light to offer to people who do. The fastest way to get people to like you.”

“I still don’t like you,” Michael shot back. He threw the lighter back in Royce’s direction and tucked the cigarette in his shirt pocket.

Royce chuckled. “I figured out that you were in Paleto Bay. So I hitched aboard a military plane being piloted by a friend in the Air Force to get here. Always helps to have friends in high places.”

Michael waved his hand dismissively. “Are you going to cut to the chase here, or are you going to tell me next how far you can fucking piss?”

Royce rolled his eyes and said, “Luna’s asked to recuse herself from the operation.”

Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “Recuse?” he repeated.

“It means ‘remove’. Take out. Disqualify….”

“I know what it means,” Michael snapped. “Why? Why is she doing that?”

“I always thought it was a waste of her talents, handling a cretinous degenerate like you.” Royce took a sip of beer. “Her plan here, as fanciful as it was, hinged on selling you as a legit movie producer. But I guess people aren’t buying it.”

“I got this. I’ve been updating Ar—Agent Luna. It’s only a matter of time,” Michael said stiffly. “I’m getting close. I can feel it.”

Royce didn’t say anything immediately. He was intently rolling his beer coaster back and forth on the table. “Do you know what Luna wrote about you in her analysis?”

Michael was dying to know, but he didn’t want to give Taggart the satisfaction of a reply. Either way Michael answered, he knew that he would be in a corner. Taggart wouldn’t believe him if he said no, and there was also a big chance Taggart would withdraw completely if he said yes. And was Taggart even really planning to tell him, and was what the IAA officer going to say even the truth?

It was also a people skill to know when to shut up. Michael clasped his hands on the table and gave Royce a steely look.

“‘A promiscuous womanizer with murderous tendencies, driven by spite and vanity. Wholly motivated by self-aggrandizement. Prone to fits of unencumbered rage. Opportunistic, egotistical, narcissistic. Indulges in hedonism parlayed through heavy alcohol consumption and frequent engagements with sex workers.’”

“‘Hedonism’?” Michael echoed.

“It means….”

“I know what it means, Agent Thesaurus,” Michael said haughtily.

Royce cleared his throat. “The agency keeps two types of assets in its stable. On the one side, we got the VIPs—three-star generals, genius scientists, career diplomats, award-winning entertainers, and others of those ilk. I told you about my friends in high places, didn’t I? 

“…And then on the other, there’s the low-lives like you. The nobodies, expendable, wallowing in irrelevance. The criminals, the filth, the scum of the earth. You could fall dead right now, De Santa, and the world will immediately be better for it. …Your family, for starters. Hear you got them a hefty insurance payout. I’m surprised they haven’t offed you themselves. Pretty sure it’s only a matter of time, so you better watch yourself.” 

“You fucking piece of shit,” Michael snarled as he lunged across the table and tried to reach for Royce’s collar.

Royce exhaled a sardonic chuckle as he stood up from the booth, deftly avoiding Michael’s attack as the older man stumbled across the table and sent the bowl of nuts scattering. “For the life of me, I don’t understand what Luna sees in you now, especially after I read her report on you. I don’t know what happened to that head of hers after it got smashed up the side of a slot machine. I’ll chalk it up to temporary insanity. Or you’re fucking packed.” He rolled his eyes. 

Royce continued, “But she’s a smart girl. She’ll see the light. And then she’s gonna leave your sorry ass and this fake-ass town.” He turned around and made his way towards the exit, and telling the bartender with a large smile and motioning towards Michael, “My friend is paying.”

Michael picked himself up from off the table as he tried to collect his composure. The front of his shirt was dusted with salt, which he brushed off. “You…cocky cock!” he shouted feebly, impotent in a war of words for the first time in his life. If Royce had heard Michael, he made no show of it, and the prospect of being ignored was something that Michael did not take lightly to.

And as he was wont to do whenever he was angry, Michael sped 130 miles per hour, opting this time for the Senora Freeway, the eastern artery of the belt line connecting the Greater Los Santos Area.

“I think it’s time to show you who I _really_ am, Agent,” Michael said bitterly as “Back in Black” played at full blast on the car stereo.

* * *

What a hell of a day. Ari sought to take the edge off by soaking in a warm lavender-scented bubble bath with a glass of Chardonnay, feeling the insides of her head melt and mellow somewhat from the gummy she’d taken. She took one of her newer toys with her to the tub, a waterproof oral sex-simulating clit stimulator. But in the midst of her building arousal, a vision of Royce and their kiss entered her mind, and she quickly shut off the toy to snuff out any sexy thoughts and feelings. Never mind that she’d ruined her own orgasm; God forbid she trigger a sex dream about Taggart. Ari shuddered.

She preferred no music whenever she needed to enter a state of calm. Even so-called meditation pieces never had their effect on her. In time, the mind-numbing effects of her chosen depressants kicked in, the peace of nothingness seeping into her consciousness. Why couldn’t she stay in this state forever?

She’d fallen asleep in the bathtub. By the time a violent rapping on the front door had woken her, only a few foamy islands remained on the surface, and the water had turned clear and cold. Her shivering this time was due to the chill, as she stood up and covered herself in a teal terry-cloth robe. There was a voice, but from the bathroom, she couldn’t make out what was being said.

So much for her moment of Zen, which she now had to grudgingly abandon. She didn’t care who was on the other side of the door; she just wanted them to fuck off for disturbing her rare moment of tranquility. Despite her grogginess, she managed to retrieve the compact pistol she kept hidden in a sconce near the front door. “Who’s there?” Ari asked.

“It’s me,” spoke a familiar cadence, albeit more gruffly than usual.

Ari felt a tinge of relief—and excitement—as she replaced the pistol before disengaging the door locks. But that was short-lived when she noticed the fierce demeanour Michael was sporting, with his furrowed brow and tautened lips. She’d also detected an aura of aggressiveness about him, the usual brilliance in his blue eyes replaced by a fiery rage. For the first time since they’d met, knowing what he was capable of, Ari was quite possibly fearful of him—she hoped she wan’t showing it. If there was one thing from his profile that assuaged her, it was that she knew that he had never once laid a finger on his wife, no matter how contemptuous their arguments got.

“What time is it?” Ari asked, a genuine question. “I’d been trying to call—”

Michael stepped towards her while slamming the door behind him. “We’ll have it your way, Agent. Your terms.”

Still reeling from the effects of a broken slumber, Ari mumbled, “What are you talking about?”

“You want to be like every other whore I fuck, so be it.” Michael snarled. “No more…cooking, no more singalongs, no more football. It’s what you asked for.”

The vitriol in his voice felt like daggers to the heart, and so did the prospect of losing everything that he’d said, but Ari kept a straight face. “Right. It’s what I asked.”

He tilted his head to one side. “So, you down to fuck tonight?”

She nodded. “Yes.” Ari stepped towards him and made a move to kiss him, but he extended his arm, pressing his hand on the top of her rib cage, to stop her. She looked at him with a dazed look on her face.

“No kissing above the neck,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “That mouth of yours is only good for sucking cock.” 

If Michael had blinked, he would have missed it, but that eagle eye of his was a skill he’d honed over his long, tortured life from his innate tendencies—a look of sadness and devastation crossed Ari’s face, one that she quickly neutralized. He couldn’t bear to look at her, lest he see it again. He looked up at the ceiling as he unbuckled his leather belt and undid the fly of his denim jeans. “On your knees.”

She knew he had every right to be angry because she’d hurt him. But this was what she’d wanted all along—uncomplicated, distant, and cold. As straightforward as her taking his flaccid penis in his mouth to get him hard. At this size, she could take him and get her tongue and lips up to his balls for an extra source of stimulation.

Several minutes passed before they both noticed that something wasn’t right. One was too proud and stubborn to admit it sooner, and the other was trying to find a delicate way to bring up the standing issue. 

“It just ain’t happening, chief,” Ari said softly, as she continued to stroke him in her hand. She wondered if there was something else that was bothering him.

“Is it time for me to start using those little blue pills?” Michael said haughtily. “Is that ol’ Nicky’s secret? Or does he not need them at all because he’s just that virile, huh?”

“For fuck’s sake. Stop it,” Ari said, trying to fight the irritability that threatened to rise in her tone. Didn’t he know that he’d won already?

“Or what about your boy toy, Taggarto, huh? I’ll bet he can ‘sproing!’ for you just like that.” Michael snapped his fingers.

The blood immediately left Ari’s face. Michael couldn’t possibly know about what happened between Royce and her today, could he? She elected to stay silent, intending not to draw any more attention towards her reaction. She prayed it was just a coincidence.

Michael took a step back to free himself from Ari’s grip and gestured to zip himself back up. “Well, since this isn’t working out tonight….”

“No. Stay. Please,” Ari pleaded, and she immediately stood up, reaching out for his arm. Michael didn’t shake himself loose this time, but he still couldn’t stand to look at her. “I…let’s…. Why don’t you spank me again?”

Now Michael was compelled to turn his head and face her, to try and see Ari’s agenda here. Amanda had never been kind to him those times he’d suffered from performance issues (usually side effects of his cocktails of anti-depressants and possibly alcohol, he would always remind himself), but Ari…. There was no hint of malice or disdain in her eyes, no drawing attention to his shortcomings, only genuine concern.

Her hand was still gripping his arm. Michael’s mind wrestled with this concerned, understanding version of Ari standing in front of him with the cruel, back-stabbing cunt that Taggart had painted. It occurred to him that Taggart could have been lying to him too, but what if he wasn’t? Was that what Ari really thought of him, and she’d only been using him as a sympathy fuck all this time? He now knew the wiles that she was capable of, and maybe he’d been a fool to fall for them. Michael chided himself for being so blind; it was certainly what he deserved for thinking with his dick.

“Safe word.” Ari’s voice snapped Michael back to reality. Before he knew it, they were both in her bedroom; she’d since stripped her robe and lay on the bed on her stomach, baring the back of her naked flesh. 

“‘Quirky,’” Michael said reflexively, recalling the one she’d chosen for them a while back. It was also reflex that made him reach out and touch the soft mounds of her buttocks, feeling the soothing smoothness of her skin against his hand. While massaging her, he started to feel the stirring in his loins, like how he had felt it when she was fellating him a while ago. But there had been something missing, which had been preventing him from getting up, he figured. Maybe they could work it out with a little kink. 

His first several slaps were light, just enough to make his presence felt and warm the both of them up, varying the points of impact all across her butt cheeks that were beginning to gain some colour. Those would awaken the nerves and broaden the sensations of pain, rather than emphasize and aggravate the one spot. He then upped the intensity, administering a long, steady, rhythmic stream of spanks that alternated between left and right.

“Harder.” He heard her voice, muffled through the cushion.

The next strikes he dealt were louder, amplified by the walls. The pink in that one area started to deepen.

“Harder,” Ari repeated.

He moved to the other cheek and struck a stronger whack, and then another, and another. He thought he heard her cry out, but instead she said,

“Harder. More.”

“You’ve been a naughty girl,” Michael growled as he considered her trysts with Nic and Royce. From the day they met, she made him believe that he was special, but the jig was up. He was going to give her what she deserved now.

He delivered a blow with all the force he could muster, that her body spasmed with the impact, and he heard another muffled cry. Each slap rendered her nerves more sensitive, the pain ascending to punishing, excruciating levels, so she said, 

“More.”

He was going to give her what she wanted, all right. Michael delivered three more hard blows of that level in succession, three loud whacks that pierced the thick, tense air in the small bedroom. His chest heaved as he paused to take a breather, his mind and his hormones circling in an erratic fog.

Beads of sweat had formed on his brow by the time he’d thought to assess the situation as he glanced at the bed beneath him. Ari’s ass had turned an alarming colour, a speckle of welts raised to drive home the damage he’d inflicted.

Ari lay perfectly still. She wasn’t breathing.

A lump rose to Michael’s throat, and panic filled his mind, dreading the absolute worst. Had he gone too far? Did he give her a heart attack? Had he killed her right there? 

“No! No no no no no,” Michael said out loud. A deep sense of fear and remorse flooded him; but to his mercy, one that he didn’t deserve, he saw her shoulders lift the next second, as she shifted her head to lie sideways to get some air.

She was choking on a heavy sob, her face contorted in an agonized rictus as tears rolled onto the mattress. “I’m sorry,” Ari whimpered in between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Ah, she was aware of her mistakes to him after all, Michael thought. The legendary Ari Luna did look pitiful in this state; he could consider forgiving her for her unfaithfulness.

“I’m sorry, Aiden.”

Michael’s heart stopped—a _fourth_ man? My god, she’d really been around the block, didn’t she? He was going to give it to her good now. He raised his hand in the air for another heavy blow that she deserved, but his hand stopped barely an inch above her already raw and reddened flesh when the epiphany hit him. However, he needed to hear it straight from her own lips.

“Who’s Aiden?” Michael asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- FEEL FREE TO CALL ME OUT ON MY BULLSHIT
> 
> \- Michael is LITERALLY COVERED IN SALT after his showdown with Royce; that is the peak of my cleverness.
> 
> \- Is it just me, or does Amy Coney Barrett give me total Amanda vibes?


	16. Entre Nous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If my devils are to leave me, I am afraid my angels will take flight as well." \-- Rainer Maria Rilke

_Who’s Aiden?_ A bewildered Michael wanted answers, but that would have to wait. He was needed here and now. 

“Quirky,” he said instead, his own voice getting caught in his throat. He picked up Ari’s listless body and slowly made his way to sit up against the headboard. Once again, it was he who called the safe word. He’d since learned that she was going to take it way too far for his own liking if it were solely up to her. 

He lay her back against his chest, gently rocking her from side to side as her sobbing persisted. “Quirky, quirky, quirky,” he murmured. “…Baby, I stopped. It’s over…it’s over. Don’t cry…please…. You don’t have to cry anymore….”

But he knew her tears weren’t for him, at least not entirely.

He embraced her tightly, if only to stop her from shaking like a leaf. He pressed his face to the crown of her head, stealing a breath of lavender and vanilla from her damp hair—there was no bigger turn-on for Michael than a freshly bathed woman. She felt so good in his arms, but he now wished the circumstances for their reunion were different.

Ari wrought herself free from his embrace and sat herself up. To Michael, it felt like a slap in the face—could she not see he was trying to help her?—until he noticed that she was clutching her chest and hyperventilating through a spate of dry coughs.

Michael felt his blood go cold and his mouth go dry. Now he felt stupid for taking her withdrawal as a slight. Did he do this to her? Did he trigger a seizure or a heart attack somehow by spanking her? Was that even possible? 

For the briefest of moments, a sinister side of him thought about getting up from the bed and simply watching her suffer, after all that she had once said and written about him. It was what she deserved for being dishonest to him, for bullshitting him that night they’d first met. 

But he couldn’t. 

_It wasn’t all bullshit_ , Michael thought, _she was just saying it was to push me away_. He let his gut, his heart, override the devil—his propensity to hurt—that was whispering in his ear to leave her and let her deal with this by herself.

He retrieved the budget flip phone he had on him, the one Laura had told him to get, since he’d left his iFruit smartphone at home when he’d walked out of Amanda’s shoot. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”

“N…n…no,” Ari stammered through trembling lips, her body still visibly shaking.

“You’re not dying on me, Luna,” he said grimly, but she shook her head again.

Michael went on, “I know I’m fucked up in a lot of ways, but necrophilia ain’t one of them.”

To his relief, she chuckled, and her face lit up with a brief smile for a second, before it turned into another grimace. He knew she would. It was what she always did. She always made him feel better, just like now, even if she was in tears, even if she was clearly in distress, even if she was silently battling her own demons.

Because in the end, it wasn’t always about her.

 _It isn’t always about you_ , Michael could hear Trevor’s and Amanda’s voices chorus in his mind.

“I’m…fine…” Ari managed to blurt out, even if she clearly was clutching her chest and gasping. “…Not…heart…attack.” 

If his inkling was right, coupled with her reassurance, he knew exactly what was happening to her. He knew he had to keep a calm exterior, for her sake, even if it was harder this time around. He too was suffering, seeing her like this. 

“Ari…I’m here. What do you need me to do?” He tried to meet her unsteady gaze, which was shifting all over the room.

“Water. Please,” she breathed, as if every syllable was laborious.

He scrambled out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, not wanting to waste any time away from her. If something to happened to her while he was away, he was really going to regret not being there for her in time. He grabbed the first drinking receptacle he spotted, a pastel pink coffee mug from the dish rack and filled it from the pitcher in the refrigerator. 

Ari was still seated on the bed, chest still heaving, when Michael returned to her. She looked like hell, like she’d been through a tornado, with her crumpled hair all over her tear-streaked face. She took the mug when he held it out to her, and she gulped it all down, as if she was in the midst of running a marathon. He offered her more when he took the mug away, and she shook her head. Her heaving had toned down, at least.

“Michael,” she said through heavy breaths once again, still with her melodic tone, “thank you. For being here.”

He gulped. Since her episode started, he regretted coming here to confront Ari. It was his bruised ego that led him here. Why had he been so foolish to unquestioningly believe Taggart in the first place? It was the convenient, selfish thing to do.

But then again, even if she really did write or believe all those things about him—what parts of it weren’t true? He’d acted impulsively, out of pride by coming here to confront her.

_It isn’t always about you._

“I don’t know what to do,” she wailed. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m at a loss. I’m going nowhere. I’m hopeless….” Ari fell into another series of sobs.

He slowly reached out, but he paused before he made contact. “Ari, can I touch you?”

She looked at him at first before she nodded, her face squirming into another grimace. She was still taking short, laboured breaths, so he decided against hugging her again, as much as he wanted to—it was about what she needed, after all. He slowly reached for her hands, and when she didn’t recoil, started rubbing them, hoping the warmth would relax the rest of her tense body. 

She still wasn’t all here, not totally, still with the glazed look in her eyes. The fear was all in her head. Again, like the last time she broke down in front of him, he wanted to tell her it was going to be okay, but it would be a disservice, a hollow promise. It was killing him to witness her in such a sorry state, but he had to assure himself, for the both of them, that it was going to pass.

But unlike the last time, she seemed far more fraught and fragile, as if she were a precious porcelain doll that would shatter at even a featherlight touch.

“Ari,” he whispered minutes later when her sobbing naturally began easing off, “can I hug you now?”

She hesitated for a moment before she said, “Yes,” and she hadn’t even finished saying the word when Michael swooped in for a bone-rattling hug. She pressed her face to his chest, and he felt his shirt get warm and wet from her tears and saliva from her continued bawling.

“Let it out, baby. I’m here…I’m here…. You’re not alone.” He gently cradled her head in his hand, trying not to press her too hard to his chest, letting her have all the time to be held by him as needed. 

Michael closed his eyes to rest for a moment, eyelids heavy from a taxing day. He’d been up since ass o’clock after all. He had been hoping to open his eyes again after a few seconds, but he never got to. 

By the time his eyelids did fly open half an hour later, in alarm, Ari was lying on the opposite side of the bed, facing away from him, curled up into the fetal position, still naked.

He squinted as the lights in the bedroom were still on, the harshness of the incandescent bulb invading his newly opened eyes. The room was too warm for his liking; his shirt was damp with his sweat, and he took it off. His jeans may as well come off too; he hated going to bed in jeans anyway.

He twisted his hips towards her to check on her. “Ari?” Michael asked softly, careful not to wake her if she was asleep.

She turned to face him immediately, her eyes dry but still slightly swollen and red. Gingerly, she pushed herself up to sit against the pillows as he was. She looked so worn and defeated in this state, without any make-up to act as an acceptable front-facing veneer. He could see every fine line, every discoloured spot, every bumpy pore on her face. She had never looked more pathetic, Michael thought, she had never looked more human.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that. Again,” Ari said, trying to fight back tears.

“No…don’t be.” Michael shook his head. “I’d get those too, you know,” he said slowly, “the anxiety attacks.”

He felt her eyes widen at him in wonder. If he wanted to get her to share her burdens with him, he might as well lead by example. He held out his hand, hovering just above her torso, and she took it, pressing it against her heart, on her left breastbone.

“It feels like darkness is consuming you, doesn’t it?” Michael whispered. He still remembered the vivid dreams at night—the sound of gunshots rupturing his eardrums, the acridity of sulphur burning his nostrils, the weight of lead hampering his legs. It had been months since his last episode, but he still remembered the fear in all its palpability like it was yesterday. “You think it’s never gonna end, you think it’s gonna be easier if you die.”

“And then what happens?” Ari asked softly.

“Nothing. It ends. Unfortunately, you gotta keep on living.”

“Ah, said like a true Gen X-er,” she said with the faintest of smirks.

Michael echoed her smirk, but he paused for a beat before he went on, “You’ve had to make some hard choices, haven’t you?” Since being coy with her only led to impasses, being bold was the only play left. “I gotta think that’s why…we’ve been drawn to each other. From the start. You knew my life was full of hard choices. Defined by them, even.”

Ari’s shoulders stiffened as she bristled at his assumptions. She stared at the tops of her knees as if they were the most riveting sight in the room.

“You saw something in me, Ari. You saw hope, another shot at redemption. Maybe by giving me my shot, you could get yours too.”

She was avoiding his gaze yet again, this time deliberately, suddenly a shrinking violet.

He gave her some time to wallow in her thoughts, or lack thereof. As much as he wanted to hold her again, he let her be. He’d tried searching around the bedroom, looking for the guitar he’d given her. There weren’t too many places to stow it in her apartment, and he hadn’t seen it outside. Had she given it away already? But then he peered through the opening of her closet, the sliding door pulled back halfway, and saw the case right in the corner. Had she kept it there since he had given it to her?

When he felt like enough time had passed, Michael pressed on, “What I learned in my sorry existence is that sometimes, you gotta face your demons head-on if you want a chance to fight them. …It doesn’t have to be now. It doesn’t have to be me. But….”

“I’m not okay. I haven’t been since my last assignment,” Ari blurted out. “That last…my last…. It fucked me up good. I’m not sure I ever recovered. Michael…I blew my country’s diplomatic standing and I killed my asset. How does one ever recover from that?” Her voice croaked towards the end, and she buried her face on her folded arms, which were atop her folded knees.

This time, he did touch her, softly placing a hand on the back of her head, smoothing out the tangles in her hair. “What happened?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s classified.”

“ _Ari,_ ” Michael growled with a fearsome bite that perturbed her once again. He sighed and said in a more appeasing tone, “You can trust me, all right? If it leaks…if in any case this goes public, you can blame me. Kill me if you have to. I ain’t gonna do you like that. Believe me.”

Ari looked into his eyes to try to gauge if he was telling the truth. She always knew those baby blues would be her undoing. Now, they were compelling her to tell him something she’d never told a living soul, but only in silent conversations with her mother. 

She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Aiden was my previous asset. I loved him too.”

Michael’s heart skipped a beat, his eyes quickly darting to watch her after her totally (deliberately?!) ambiguous last sentence. Her expression remained unchanged.

“It was the one time I let my defences down. I never let myself get involved with anyone, and as I expected...it turned out to be a huge mistake. But I was not myself then.

“I never admitted this to anyone else but Aiden…no one, not until you tonight.” Ari paused, her bottom lip trembling again as tears started to well in her eyes. “But that last mission…my last mission…it broke me. It broke me, and I’m not sure I’ve completely recovered, as much as I want to believe I have.”

“Tell me. What happened?” Michael repeated, with a little more urgency this time. “Please.”

Ari glanced at Michael, who wore a pleading expression on his face. She hesitated before she spoke, “We had intel on Aiden…that his morals were at odds with his government duty. We’d known his marriage was on the rocks. That’s part of why they sent me. Every night, I’d sing at the bar he’d frequent alone, after he got off from work….” Ari’s voice trailed off and her lips curled into a trembling smile. “That was my favourite cover. I wish it had gone on longer.

“It was easy to gain his affection. Catch his eye, talk a little. Give him a little respect. What any human craves. But I had a job to do, and I finally had to tell him who I really was and what I wanted from him.

“…I knew immediately that he was scared. I was…I was asking him to betray his country. Such a concept is almost taboo in his culture, punishable by death.

“I did what I had to do to get him on board. Gave him the big speech, not unlike what I did to you. Played to his meaninglessness, chided him for being banal and therefore evil. …And then he said he was going to. For me. He told me he fell in love with me the moment he heard me sing.

“I’d had that feeling he did. When someone’s in love with you; you know it, it’s instinctive, just like that.” Ari snapped her fingers. “But hearing it, spoken into existence, manifested out in the world…it suddenly felt real, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

Even more than the disclosure of who Aiden was in her life, to Michael, what Ari had just said felt like a bigger revelation of what her torments were. 

Ari grabbed a tissue from the bedside table to wipe her eyes and her nose, which were wet and red again. Unprompted, Michael brought her a cup of water; she wasn’t sure how or when he’d managed to refill it, but there he had it.

“The intelligence that Aiden would present to me brought me to tears every time. Sleepless nights. …I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe we were in the 21st century and we were still ostracizing people just because they didn’t fit a certain ideal. I thought we’d learned….” Her voice trailed off again and cracked before she went on.

“Aiden knew I was hurting with what his government was doing. I found solace in him, in more ways than one.”

Michael visibly bristled, puffing out his chest, at the implication of Ari sleeping with another man.

“I was coming off highs of a series of successful missions. I could do no wrong. I was at the top of my game. That was why they put me on that op. …So I decided to take matters in my own hands. I soon stopped sending reports to base and sat on them, knowing all they had in mind was blackmail. That was all they were good for, their self-interests of money and power. They weren’t exposing this to put an end to it or for the better good. No…it was all to reign supreme in the capitalist arena. It was disgusting.

“And then…I don’t know what came over me. I decided to assassinate the man the agency codenamed Finch, the one who was calling the shots over this…this sick undertaking, just because. It seemed like something sensible to do, at the time. …A car bomb. I don’t even remember how I got one. Aiden…I made him…he did it. Without hesitation. He did it….”

She choked on a sob again and leaned over towards Michael, collapsing onto his lap. He let her bawl for a healthy while, wiping a corner of his eye that had welled up. 

“They were on to him for a while. He was caught. He’d told them he’d acted alone….” Ari managed through her fevered weeping. “He never compromised…betrayed me. But what did I do? I ran away. I fled. I fled the country as soon as I learned he was sentenced to death for treason. I couldn’t…. I couldn’t bear to see him executed….” 

She turned around while she lay on his lap, so she could look straight up into his eyes. “Michael…I killed him. His biggest crime was that he fell in love with me, and I…I took advantage of his feelings for me. For my own misguided agenda. Defied my orders, broke protocol, went rogue…for what reason? …Hubris? 

“I caused nothing but pain to his family, to anyone who cared about him. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. …It should have been me with the bomb…it should have been me with the sword.”

Michael saw no wrong in her involvement in her recapitulation of events. She did what she had to do. But for a rare time in his long, arduous life, he was speechless. With a light touch of his thumb, he tried to brush away the streak of tears that formed on her cheeks.

“I regret how I played a part in sending a man—a man I loved—to his death,” Ari said in a whisper, “but the devastating thing is that, a part of me would do it all over again…if it means putting an end to that atrocity. I would gladly end one evil life it means saving countless of innocent ones. …I don’t regret going ahead with it at all. But I do regret being caught.”

“You did what you thought was right at the time,” Michael said under his breath. Shades of her story resonated with his own. “You held on to your principles. You made those hard decisions. You just…you just wanted to right some wrongs.”

Neither said a word for several minutes. She’d pressed her forehead into the warmth of his belly, and he was playing with her hair, running his fingers through the fine strands.

“I’m sorry.” Michael grudgingly broke the silence, even when it had become comfortable. “I was so mad at you. But now I know. …Now I understand why you had to recuse yourself from the case.”

Ari jolted from her prone position and sat up straight, staring at Michael, the most alert and animated she’d been since he’d arrived. “What are you talking about?” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Michael stared at her, and with each word that came out of his mouth, he felt like an even bigger asshole. “Taggart told me you’d left the case.”

“Fuck.” Ari covered her face with her hands and shook her head. “No! …No, I did no such thing.” Her hands dropped to cover her agape mouth. “Oh, that motherfucker gives cocksuckers a bad name. What else did he tell you?”

“He’d told me what you wrote about me in your profile on me.”

When Michael didn’t say anything else, Ari pressed, “What did he say I wrote?”

“That you said I was…some hedonistic womanizer…self-aggrandizing narcissist….”

She frowned. “Oh…. I don’t quite remember it verbatim myself. I know I may have taken some…creative liberties….”

“I was fucking furious at you when Agent Fuckface was laying it all out,” Michael said, and then he took a gulp, remembering something else Amanda had chided him for—his lack of accountability. “But then I realized…what parts of it weren’t true? I shouldn’t blame you or anyone else for the decisions I’d made….”

Ari shook her head. “What I wrote back then seems so reductive now since I’ve gotten to know you.… I didn’t expect any of it. You surprised me.” She took his left hand, still marked by the silver wedding band on his ring finger. “I suppose you’re right…maybe this was why…I was drawn to you and your history,” Ari said quietly. “Tell me. Does it go away?”

“What does?”

She gestured vaguely. “This…this…I don’t know how to describe it…. Heaviness….”

“Guilt?” Michael offered.

“Maybe,” she said uneasily. “It’s this…weight.”

“If it’s anything like mine…it will fade,” Michael said slowly. “Old age…time…has a wonderful way of doing that. And perhaps the occasional cathartic outburst.”

Ari smiled sheepishly.

“Time…yeah, that’s it,” he went on. “It won’t go away overnight, that’s for sure. I don’t know…I don’t know if it will go away… Maybe I gotta deal with this for the rest of my life.”

“That’s what I feared,” she said slowly.

“But you know, maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t want to forget. Because how else could I trace the passage of the person I get to become?”

Michael felt a pang in his head, bogged by the toll of the tumultuous day he’d had. He might have outwardly grimaced, because she noticed and offered, “You can sleep here tonight if you’re not feeling well.”

He nodded as he slowly lay down on the bed, and she mirrored his position on the opposite side. It felt natural here, he felt right at home. “I didn’t want to leave until I knew for sure you were okay,” Michael said.

* * *

Like clockwork, Michael awoke at 5:45, in spite of having only a few hours of sleep. He smiled to himself at the crystal vision of Ari sleeping next to him, facing him. Apart from a horizon of infinite ocean beneath clear, sunny skies, there was no more perfect sight. 

The early gleams of sunlight crept through the slats of the Venetian blinds. It was then he realized that she never had the chance to close them nor turn off the bedroom light before she slept, like she usually did. She always preferred sleeping in complete darkness, she’d told him.

Now, he finally knew what was eating at her, and by sheer luck, it was something that he could relate to. He too had done things that he’d felt right at the time—his first take, his marriage, his ill-fated deal with Agent Norton. He had been completely justified in making those decisions in those given moments.

As much as time had taken away from him, time also blessed him with experience, with self-awareness, with wisdom. It was true, time had mellowed him.

Time also shifted his priorities and perceptions. Hindsight could be a cruel judge at times. He would rue over what should gone differently, which choices could have caused less pain, only to be reminded it was an exercise in vanity.

If he ever wanted a shot at redemption, he realized, one that was going to let him escape from his history, it wasn’t going to fall in his lap like he’d once thought Ari had brought him. He would have to toil for it.

His gaze basked in the image of her serene repose, and any weighty worries that had been at the forefront of his mind simply vanished. For now, he was going to live in this moment, and this moment alone.

Michael closed his eyes again and snuggled down closer to her body, his face mere inches from hers, her breathing a reminder that luck and virtue could befall even a wretch like him.

_I love you, Ariadne._

His eyes fluttered open at the involuntary thought that came without warning. But as he continued to stare at her, the sentiment still felt right. He felt a warmth growing in his chest, an explosion like a dam had burst and the immeasurable force of flowing water renewed his spirit.

He’d never encountered anyone like Ariadne Luna, without a shadow of a doubt. He’d never met anyone with such an unwavering moral compass—then again, based on his checkered past, the bar was comically low. He’d never met anyone who wanted to make a positive difference in the world out of sincere, selfless compassion—with a little renegade attitude to boot—and he couldn’t help but admire that. Maybe he needed a little more of that sense of purpose in his life. 

_I love you, Ariadne._

Did he say it out loud? He feared he had, because Ari’s eyes opened the next second, and she regarded him with a bright smile. No, she did not hear him then.

Just when Michael was about to wax poetic to her about the tableau of Sleeping Ariadne worthy of exaltation as a work of Hellenistic Antiquity, she blurted out in an incredulous tone, “You still get morning wood at your age?”

He’d only noticed when she pressed her knee into him, and instead of squishing into him, he felt it bounce against an erection through his boxers. Oh, _that_ was why she was smiling. Did he mention he also loved just how lewd she could be?

“Looks like all the wiring’s back in order, tiger,” Ari giggled as she took a peek under the covers. “Oh…but don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who names his penis. And if you are…please lie to me and say you aren’t. Or else I’m going to have to un-fuck every time I had to fuck you before.”

 _This girl_ , Michael thought as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into him. _This girl!_ “I’m not like that,” he lied, “Don’t be ridiculous.” And before he could say anything else that could send her running away, he pressed his mouth onto hers for a deep, mind-drugging kiss.

Ari grinned through their kiss while she remembered how he’d tried to stop her from kissing him last night.

While it was comforting to feel her smile, Michael pulled away to ask, “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Ari said simply, knowing he wouldn’t admit to it. He gave her a playful poke on the waist, and she yelped, laughing.

She was startled by the cold breeze that hit her when he abruptly sat up and got to his feet, but all he did walk over to the foot of the bed. Ari looked at him in bewilderment as he took her right foot and dug his thumbs into the soles; she sighed at the pointed pressure and the light tickle that she felt straight in her groin.

“How did you learn to be so good at this?” she asked as he initiated another foot massage, and oh, did she really, really miss this from him.

Michael didn’t answer immediately, still engrossed on tracing circles with his thumb. When he finally spoke, it was after he’d given her foot a thorough rub up to her ankle, which still felt some tenderness: “Amanda…she had these how-to books lying around. I only went through them at first for the pictures. ‘Til I realized she wasn’t doing anything described in the books to me. Then when I tried doing this to her, she absolutely hated it. Said it wasn’t any sexy at all.” 

He went on to her massage her other foot and cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something about your mission?”

Ari hesitated. She wasn’t fond of discussing losing games. “It depends.”

“What’s my code name?”

She was relieved it was innocuous enough. “It’s D—” she started, but she clammed up before she could finish, when her mind stumbled on the word’s significance.

Michael waited for her to continue, but she never did. He noticed her face had turned a light pink.

“Well? What’s my code name?”

Ari looked him in the eye and deadpanned, “Potato. Your code name is Potato.”

She knew he would retaliate, and she attempted to pull her foot away from his grasp; but he was too quick and strong, clasping her foot immediately. She could go toe to toe with him at jokes, another thing Michael loved about her. Reaction time, however, he definitely had her beat.

“You should know better by now than to sass me while I’m giving you a foot rub,” Michael taunted. “What’s my code name?”

“No! No no no no! It’s classified!” She was already squirming, shrieking, and laughing, and he wasn’t even tickling her yet. He decided the unprovoked, wild thrashing was entertainment enough.

“You’re one to talk when you’re the sex weasel,” Michael huffed.

“Un-fucking-fair. Can’t I be ‘vixen’?”

He snorted. “Na-uh. You don’t get to choose your own pet name. Dem’s the rules.” He began planting unhurried, careful kisses all over the top of her foot.

Oh, this was new, Ari thought as his lips made a slow, tantalizing trail up her leg, which his hands—soft and light for a man of his rugged demeanour, the paradox of which she still hadn’t gotten used to—also caressed. She rewarded his gusto by running her fingers through his perfectly groomed hair.

There went his lips on her knee, his fingertips tickling the backs of them, all sending signals of wanton desire to her brain again. Another of the many things that surprised her about him was his willingness to engage in foreplay. From her initial profile, she’d expected him to be the wam-bam-thank you-ma’am type of lover, but she was happy to be be proven wrong.

Or maybe he was doing things differently for her. She wasn’t sure what to think. Worrying about that would have to come at another time.

His face was on the insides of her thigh now, where he hooked his hand around. With every soft kiss that was amplified by the proximity to sensitive flesh, Ari felt the flame being stoked. 

He surprised her again by not moving to her clit as she’d expected, but by moving the one-man kissing party to the top side of her thigh, going across her pelvic bone and up to the same level as her navel. Oh, was he really going to tantalize her by prolonging her neediness as much as possible? Ass. 

But he’d traced the straight line down her navel with kisses to her pillowy mound, peppering that intimate area all around with smacks and nips. Her breathing became louder, more ragged; wisps of relief rising all the way to the musty, yellowed ceiling. Her fingers clawed at his hair even harder, and Michael had to slow down before she tore it all off.

By the time he lay his mouth on her clit and his fingers prodded her pussy, she felt the ripples of an orgasm course through her, a small surprise even to her, one that was barely noticeable by even the most keen-eyed outside observer. She would have this one for herself. 

That first orgasm would trigger a series of deep-seated undulations as she was rendered more tender, more liquid by the previous one in a virtuous cycle of blessed passion. “No! Fuck! No!” Ari cried repeatedly as she felt it all again, failing to contain the tremors that were splintering the core of her being over and over.

She was trembling again, but as a result of a gradual descent from celestial highs. He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips.

“Where’s your bullet?” Michael murmured, and Ari let out a soft wail when he pulled away.

“My what?!” she asked, very confused that he’d be talking about firearms at a time like this.

“Bullet,” he repeated. “I mean…vibrator. Your bullet vibrator.”

It took a few more seconds before his request registered in her mind. Michael used to want nothing else to come in bed between them, like props or her toys, as he’d declared that his own devices were more than sufficient to please her. Ari had been slightly disappointed that she couldn’t share this little interest of hers with him. She didn’t mind plain vanilla, but she would have preferred to spice it up. She leaned over to her bedside drawer to retrieve a shocking pink plastic bullet, the exact size of a lipstick, and handed it to him.

Michael held the pink bullet to her lips and commanded, “Lick.” The sight of her, her eyes locked into his, doing so nearly sent him over the edge.

But his favourite sight was the rapture on her face when the tip of his cock would teasingly prod at her entrance and he would slide himself in; impaling her, filling her, being one with her. He would take that image of her to his dreams.

Michael guided her, not wanting to lose the point of their connection, as he lay himself on his side so that she could mirror his position. She was able to take a little more of him, but he needed a few inches of room in between them so he could place the buzzing vibrator on her.

Ari gasped as he raised the levels of the vibrator that was directly on her sensitive, swollen, now fully emerged clit. The intense rumbling of the bullet and the immense feeling of Michael inside her were all too much, too fast, as the seemingly endless frissons took over all her senses. He wasn’t even moving inside her; instead, he let her simply feel him, deep and full and oh so deliciously thick.

One thing that annoyed Michael was the tendency for her hands to fly to her face when she was approaching an especially excruciating climax, as she was doing so now. With his free hand, he entangled his fingers around both of her wrists and raised her arms over her head.

“Where is this coming from?” she managed through breathless gasps as another shockwave wrought her. “You never wanted to play with my toys before.”

“It shouldn’t be about what I want all the time,” Michael said, giving her a kiss on her cheek, tasting the residue of saline from last night’s tears, “I should also give you what you need. Or what you want. Without you having to ask.”

Her hips had a mind of their own as they bucked erratically against his, and he had to steel himself from losing himself right there and then.

“What are you doing?” he demanded when she was trying to free herself from his impalement. 

“I gotta give you a blowjob now,” Ari replied.

To which he coolly replied, “No.” His hands firmly grabbed on to her hips to let her stay in place, but not without writhing his pelvis in a manner that made her whine. “No, angel-face…not now, not now. It’s all about you right now.”

“But I need you to fuck me,” she shrilled in a nasal tone.

“That’s gotta be the un-sexiest voice you’ve ever made,” Michael laughed, and he started moving within her, as if she hadn’t already been utterly destroyed by him moments ago.

Baby steps, Ari thought, as Michael had already tossed the bullet aside and positioned her onto her back. Good ol’ missionary. Michael always did have a hankering for the classics. She smiled up at him and stroked his face. Oh, the things she would do to him if he could open his mind a little more—if he allowed her to.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured as he leaned his chest onto hers, seizing her mouth in a kiss. “You’re perfect.”

“Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop, don’t…fuck…don’t…oh…fuck fuck fuck,” Ari moaned as he pumped rhythmically inside her, his friction stimulating all her most erogenous nerves and sending her in a fever pitch again and again.

Her silken softness was an intoxicating drug. Carnal instinct made him thrust as deep as he could go, and she wailed at his sudden jerk. He had to possess her, his entire body feverishly engulfing hers and his hands pinching at her flesh and marking her as his with a scattering of vermilion marks, as he reached his point of no return.

And finally, it was all too much for Michael to take. His heartbeat quickened, sweat glinted on the surface of his skin. In that moment, everything was magnified—his senses, his surroundings, his Ari. And with his merciful release came maddening ecstasy.

He collapsed on top of her, crushing her, absolutely spent from something so ephemeral and divine. He kissed her again, as if he was feeding a hunger that could never be sated.

She looked so beautiful in the morning sun. She was all his. He was hers.

* * *

Their shower together was purely functional, much to his dismay; water sex was one of her hard passes (“Water is like the reverse lube; it’s like sanding my vagina.” _…This girl!_ ). She’d made them very strong coffee and offered him a day-old hard-boiled egg for breakfast, the latter of which he’d declined. They stood at her kitchen counter, relishing what time together they had left before getting back to their respective grinds.

“Michael.” His name in her voice always did funny things to him. “I hate to get back to business so soon, but I gotta ask—have you ever heard of Regan Porter?”

He frowned as he jogged his memory. “Isn’t she some B-movie actress? C even. Name does ring a bell.”

“Did you ever encounter her while you were with Epsilon? Heard anyone mention anything, maybe even Cris Formage?”

Michael shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re the first person I’ve heard to mention her name.”

Ari sighed in disappointment. She figured she might as well give up the search for Regan Porter, lest she have two cases that were going nowhere. “How’s it been going with the studio? You should’ve done that Impotent Rage pitch by now, no?”

Michael’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! Oh man, yeah..I got along real well with Lou, who loved my treatment and also thought it’d play well to the diehard fanboys. It’s a long shot, but I am cautiously optimistic.”

“That’s great,” Ari beamed.

“And then I’m really talking with Laura Young too, and she really, really wants to work with me.”

“Laura Young?” Ari repeated. Her heart skipped a beat. “Michael….” she said slowly, “I know Laura Young’s contact details, and they haven’t appeared in any of your call logs.”

“Yeah, I know!” Michael said dismissively. “That’s because she asked me to get a burner since she said she’s paranoid about being traced. Crazy woman sometimes, but that’s gotta run in the family, I’ll bet…”

“And you didn’t figure to tell me?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think it was a big issue. Vinewood people can be kooky and paranoid. In fact, eccentricity is normal in Vinewood.…”

“Michael….” Ari gulped. “What if this is the Cardinal? Who you’re talking to?”

“It’s not,” he said adamantly, “This is the real Laura Young. I actually met her in person. She got my business card, for fuck’s sake. I know you’ve been having some trouble on your case, but this is just wishful thinking on your part. I’m sorry. But this ain’t your Cardinal.”

Ari sighed, rubbing her temple. “I suppose you’re right. …Wait…Laura Young was in Epsilon, wasn’t she?” She wasn’t exactly sure why she brought that detail up, but it suddenly crossed her mind.

“Yeah, she was telling me about that too,” Michael confirmed. “Said she was only in it because of her first husband, but she left when they were separated. Cris-without-an-H wasn’t too happy about it; Epsilon really hates it when one of their celebrity members leaves.” He winked. “See? Told ya it’s the real Laura Young. How else would she know that?”

Ari started to feel a headache. Maybe this coffee she’d made was too strong, even for her.

Her phone rang, and her eyes widened at the caller ID. She answered in haste. “Luna.”

It was Bernard, the senior agent, on the other line. “Luna…I have everything I need to know about your case. Taggart brought me up to speed. Come to my office now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [Rush](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiYXj8j2Mus) for Michael, [Charles Aznavour](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTHiFK9_FIE) for Ari.
> 
> \- I just went all self-indulgent because why the fuck not. Go big or go home. As always, call me out on any bullshit or OOC because I've never done this before, and IDK if it makes any sense. @_@ 
> 
> \- I DON'T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT, and I am unashamed to solicit suggestions from the room. Pls.


	17. Invisible Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is with absolute delight and honor that I am sharing with y'all this wonderful art that [Verbo](https://verbos-fanblog.tumblr.com/) has drawn of our respective original female protagonists [Catherine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167024/chapters/47779363) and Ariadne. 🥺 If this update took a while, blame it on the fact I couldn't stop staring at these gorgeous gals in my drafts. 🙈 Thank you with all my heart! 🥰 #GirlsClub #Crossover #OMGthedinnerparties
> 
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> 
> You may close this tab right now as this up here is as good as it's going to get on this page today. 🙃

“Dad…. DAD! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning! Where have you been? You weren’t picking up!”

The last time Jimmy had barrelled to the front door to greet Michael upon arrival like this, Jimmy Townley was eight years old. Amanda and the kids would be holed up at a nondescript motel in some Podunk Midwestern town, and Jimmy would always be eager for the shiny foil-wrapped candy bars that Michael would buy out a gas station convenience store’s entire inventory for, as a welcome treat for his children. In everyone’s presence, Michael would give Tracey and Jimmy their equal shares, but as soon as Jimmy would eat through his entire stash (usually by the next day), Michael would slip him a few more bars because he was a growing boy.

“I left my phone here.” Michael was torn whether he should be genuinely concerned for his son. Why else would Jimmy call? The mishaps Jimmy would find himself in were always of his own doing anyway. “What’s all this about?”

“You mean…you haven’t heard?” Jimmy followed his father into the kitchen, where Michael was hoping to find his missing phone. “Richards Majestic got the Impotent Rage film rights.”

Michael stopped in his tracks and turned around to stare at Jimmy. “Aw, you’re shitting me. …Where is my fucking phone? …Give it a call, won’t you, son?”

He didn’t hear it immediately, but when he did, Michael swore as he figured out his ringtone was coming from the patio. He found his phone facedown on the yoga mat that was laid out outside, but in far worse wear than when he’d last used it just yesterday—cracked screen, dented corner, and dying battery. It was still usable once he returned indoors to plug it back in at the kitchen counter.

Michael frantically checked his email inbox, finding nothing relevant to the Impotent Rage project; he did find the repeated missed calls and voicemails from Ari yesterday and Jimmy this morning. A quick perusal of the _Vinewood_ industry news website confirmed that Jimmy was indeed speaking of this version of reality.

He felt a lump in his throat as he glanced up at his son. “Trevor’s going to fucking kill me.”

“Yeah, he will,” Jimmy said in agreement; but in the next second, his expression turned sombre. “I’m only joking. …I mean, if Uncle Trevor really wanted to kill you, he would have done so last summer, right?”

“Trevor’s going to kill me not just because I didn’t get it, but because Solly got it,” Michael said bitterly. “I know Solomon. That decrepit has-been doesn’t care about Impotent Rage at all…not in the way Trevor and I would have done. I’m telling you, if he even will put that Impotent Rage film out, he’ll put the least amount of effort and money in production. All he wants is to bank off all the millions he’ll make in the box office, from the built-in fanbase of comic book geeks who’ll come in droves to see an Impotent Rage movie. Trevor forgave me for faking my death and trying to get him killed all right, but oh, he’s definitely going to kill me for allowing a shit Impotent Rage movie to be put out.”

“There’s gotta be other movies you can do, right?”

In fact, Michael had been counting on the announcement of Impotent Rage deal, after giving the pitch of his life for that film option. The reaction he’d gotten from the creators had given him the impression he’d bagged the deal. But it all turned out to be false fronts. 

Michael didn’t want to admit it to anyone yet, but he was running out of ideas and support, as the momentum from Etienne’s PR blitz was starting to fizzle out, with little to show for results. His other meetings and pitches were being met with the same rejections, if not silence. Now that Impotent Rage was out of his hands too, the only saving grace he had was this huge project that Laura Young had him on.

This was it. Laura Young was his only shot at reviving his career in Vinewood. All he needed was one good project or the potential of it. In his mind, that would also get him to the attention of this elusive Cardinal whom Ari was trying to catch. By Ari’s investigation, the Cardinal was attuned to Vinewood insider information, well before it even reached the public consciousness. The Cardinal had an impressive underground network that was somehow right under everyone’s noses….

Michael frowned. He remembered how Ari had been trying to hide her distress when they’d parted ways this morning, after she received a phone call from work. She wouldn’t tell him why, but it was easy to guess. He had to help her. Not only was it what he’d signed up to do, but he didn’t like seeing her in distress.

A very bad idea crossed Michael’s mind.

“Oh, my darling wife of mine.” Michael knocked on his bedroom door before entering.

Amanda was in bed and had abruptly stopped the activity she had been doing under the covers with one hand, while she was looking at her phone with the other. “Don’t you fucking knock?”

“I did fucking knock,” Michael pointed out dryly. 

“I didn’t think you would come back this soon. After you’d walked out yesterday. But you always do, right? You always come back home.”

“Yeah. I had to. I left my phone. Thanks for keeping good care of it,” Michael said sarcastically. “Don’t mind me interrupting your solo sexy time. It’s only also my bedroom, after all. …So, how’s the show been going?”

Amanda stared at him and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Wait…you’re not mad anymore? After what happened yesterday?”

Michael shrugged. “Well, I’m over it,” he lied. In truth, he was too tired to argue, and he needed to ask a favour from his wife, which sat very uncomfortably with him. She wielded the power in this moment, and he would have to yield to her—he _really_ didn’t want to recall the last time that happened. 

He went on, “You did what you had to do for your show, right? That oughta make your storyline more interesting than the other Los Santos housewives’. I mean, who cares about Alexandra Saint-Jacques’s fourteen adopted children?”

“Oh please, I can’t stand that woman’s sanctimonious bull crap. She has an army of nannies to tend to those children when the cameras aren’t running.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “When she has those staged latte runs for the paparazzi with her entourage of ‘ethnically diverse’ kids? It looks like she’s running a sweatshop instead.”

They both chuckled. Amanda could have a mouth on her—one of the traits that endeared her to him way back when. She could actually be entertaining at times. Michael very much preferred when he wasn’t the target of it, which he’d come to learn as their relationship festered over time.

“I did hear through the grapevine,” Michael said, trying for a smooth segue into that favour he wanted to ask, “that she and Bruce Spade only got married because they thought it’d make them more famous. Hate to say, it fucking worked.” This also had been one of their favourite pastimes together—talking shit about other people, and Amanda laughed again, commenting that she wasn’t surprised.

Michael cleared his throat. “So, that gives me an idea. Why don’t you try to convince your showrunner—R.J, wasn’t it?—to bring our marriage storyline back on the table?” He’d seen the aired episodes and was somewhat disappointed by what little screen time he’d gotten. But if even a cameo had worked to bring him back in Laura Young’s radar, maybe a bigger role would work for the Cardinal…. “It would make you seem even more sympathetic and loving,” he offered, “maybe even more than Alexandra Saint-Jacques.”

Amanda glanced at him as she considered his words, and she almost looked alluring to him once again in that state, a reminder of the woman he’d once considered spending the rest of his life with. A slow smile spread across her face.

“That seems like a great idea,” she said sweetly. “More screen time for the both of us. I’m going to let R.J. know. And maybe you can convince Etienne to lobby R.J. too.”

Michael breathed a sigh of relief. This went easier than he expected.

“I saw your assistant yesterday,” Amanda went on, “She came by the house. Looking for you.”

“Oh?” Michael tried to keep his voice as even as possible. He and Amanda had gone back to their open relationship arrangement all right, and while she never had any issue to flaunt her lovers in his face, he preferred to keep the evidence of his own transgressions, like Ari, away from her knowledge. Was it out a sense of moral superiority? Perhaps.

She made a face and crossed her arms, rubbing them. “She’s got some chunky arms on her, doesn’t she? Her chakras must be all clogged since her body’s storing all those toxins.”

Michael was used to hearing Amanda’s cattiness, especially about other women’s appearances. It was her way of dealing with her own insecurities, it seemed. He now regretted making her get those breast implants since it triggered a slew of cosmetic procedures that he had to pay for—a tummy tuck here, Botox injections there—and maybe, aside from the size of her breasts back then, Michael had always thought Amanda looked damn flawless, and he couldn’t understand why she had to keep getting all sorts of cosmetic procedures done, only to look like every other woman in Los Santos.

Amanda studied her husband with a narrowed stare. “I’m surprised you’d hire someone like that as your assistant. I mean…she’s not the type you usually go for.”

“I hired her because of her resume. Give me some fucking credit,” Michael said in a clipped tone, keeping with the charade.

“I want her on the show too,” Amanda sang. “Her presence onscreen would be good to attract her ethnic demographics. She’s one of those ethnic mongrels, isn’t she? She’s perfect. Gotta hit all those demographics!”

“I can’t have that,” Michael said in a low tone, his fists curling so tightly his fingernails later left crescent-shaped impressions in his palm. 

“Then I’m not pitching our storyline without her.”

“My assistant is not going on your show,” Michael insisted, his voice rising slightly. 

Amanda shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Michael was prepared to go into yet another full blown argument with his wife, until he felt a familiar vibration in his pocket. He answered the phone immediately with a cheerful “Laura?” as he exited the bedroom in apparent haste.

“Michael,” she greeted warmly, “have I called at a bad time?”

“I was just with my wife; that’s always a bad time,” he said wryly. “But that’s okay. I’m all yours now.”

“Is everything all right?” she asked, concerned.

He hesitated before he spoke, not sure if he should share his news, but he decided to go for it. “I lost the Impotent Rage option to fucking Richards.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I thought you were gonna vouch for me, Laure.”

“I did! You know I did. You have my word.”

Michael sighed. “Yeah, I believe you.”

“Don’t be sad,” she purred. “You’re still on with me for _The Master_ , aren’t you? Who doesn’t love a good action-adventure-fantasy-kung-fu-comedy movie? I’m telling you, once our movie comes out and breaks every box office record imaginable, everyone’s going to be at your feet, begging you to work with them.”

Daydreams of sweet Vinewood clout flashed through Michael’s mind—alighting from his helicopter (the fastest way to beat Los Santos traffic), ambling into a meeting with his sunglasses still on, among the other heavy-hitters in Vinewood. Maybe Devin Weston did have the right idea—Michael would buy the Richards Majestic lot and raze the edifices to build a slate of condominiums. He’d build his own studio lots, bigger, and better—maybe even a theme park too—elsewhere.

Take that, Solly. Take that, Mandy. Take that, Pube Head. Take that, crippling inadequacy and futility.

And he would have Laura Young to thank. Laura was his saviour.

“I told ya. I’m all excited about our project,” Michael said, “So. What can I do?”

“I would need you to go to Indonesia for some pre-production surveillance. Get to know the local handlers and crew. You’ll be the man, the point person there, overseeing production at ground level.”

“Indonesia?”

“Yes! It’s really lovely there. Their film industry is not one to joke about, and before everyone else in Vinewood discovers it, labour and location fees are all cheap. It’s my secret weapon.”

“Oh, I hear you. It all makes sense,” Michael said, trying to warm himself up to the tropical humidity and killer mosquitoes. “Hey, are you going to be attending the Fete Gala next week? We could discuss it more there.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I won’t,” she said regretfully. “I’ll be in London then.” She snorted. “I stopped going when Herbert Wendell would hound me and keep grabbing my ass before drunkenly insisting I go up to his hotel room. Those galas are long, boring, drawn-out nights of excess anyway.” She exaggerated a yawn for effect. 

“You sure I can’t convince you to go?” Michael tried. “It’s just that…I’ve been waiting my whole life to be schmoozing in these sorta soirées.”

“You’ll get plenty of events after our movie comes out,” she pointed out in a light, soothing tone. “But you gotta focus on the movie first. And your trip to Indonesia.”

Michael hesitated. “I’m not so sure about that. I gotta discuss this more with my boss first.” He was supposed to focus on this hunt for the Cardinal for Ari after all.

“I thought you were your own boss? At your own studio?”

“Well, I am…I just answer to…some important shareholders, and we’re in the middle of something big.”

Her voice turned angry all of a sudden, which made him wonder what he'd said to tick her off. “You can’t do that while you’re working with me. There’s nothing bigger than what I’m going to give you!” 

“But I gotta keep my lines open, you know that,” Michael argued.

“I need your one-hundred-percent time and commitment on this project,” she seethed. “I need your full trust and dedication here. And if you can’t give that to me at all, then I have nothing for you.”

“Okay, fine,” Michael said to appease her. “I’m yours. I’m all yours, Laure. You can have me where you want me.”

And just as instantly, she reverted back to her sweet tone. “That’s perfect. I expect nothing less. My lawyer will get in touch with you with all the details.”

* * *

One phone call. One phone call, and Ari’s job would be safe. She stared at her phone in her hands.

_“I think I brought you back too soon,” Bernard told her in his office. “This hasn’t been your finest hour, far from it. You should’ve wrapped up this operation a long time ago.”_

_“You made the right call,” Ari insisted. “I’m close. I can feel it.”_

It killed Ari to have let the old man down. But above all, she hated letting herself down. At the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but feel this was also her own fault for setting herself up with such high standards all the time.

After the stunt Royce had pulled with Michael yesterday, telling him that she’d rescinded herself from the case, she expected Royce to fill Bernard’s ear with an equally embellished story.

Instead, she’d been confronted with irrefutable truths. The suspects she’d had were dead ends, and she still didn’t have a hold on the Cardinal even with this hare-brained plan of baiting her (or him?) with her chosen Vinewood producer.

_”You only survived getting discharged for bad conduct because I let you.” Bernard took off his eyeglasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “I warned you. I cut you some slack because you’re an exceptional operative. Your results spoke for themselves. I made the call that discharging an intelligence officer of your caliber was going to be a detriment to the agency._

_“But at the same time, you’re officially under probation and therefore on a tighter leash. That’s why I asked Taggart to check on you continually and assess your fitness for this case.”_

Ari had expected Royce to tattle to Bernard that she was sleeping with her asset—enough cause under probation for a dismissal—out of spite.

_”Taggart said you were doing well. He really wanted you on his operation.”_

She’d tried to mask her sigh of relief in Bernard’s office, but she was also confused. Why was Taggart covering for her?

_”But since you still don’t have anything to show for on this operation, I don’t know how much I can keep covering for you,” Bernard said. “Two straight snafus, and you’ll be put under the microscope. If Taggart figured out Mockingbird on his own, a more thorough audit on your dossier and mine would soon unmask that an American intelligence officer was involved in the death of a foreign minister as a result of their affair—”_

The message was loud and clear—this career she worked hard at for the last ten years of her life was slipping away from her. She dismissed the thought of any sort of alternative career after the agency. Denial was a hell of a drug.

Ari intuited that the “Laura Young” that Michael had mentioned this morning was indeed the Cardinal. She just had no proof of it yet, nor was she sure she wanted to find out definitively. All she had to do was to talk to the real Laura Young and ask if Laura had been in contact with Michael all this time. Once Ari knew for sure that it wasn’t the real Laura Young, her job would be safe.

It would kill Michael though.

She cursed at herself. Wasn’t this the exact result she wanted for this mission? She should be doing victory laps all around the bullpen. But she never imagined he would be emotionally embroiled like this. He was _supposed_ to have figured it out right away. She expected him to be smarter than this; but then again, she knew about his ego and the Cardinal’s propensity, which was any scammer’s standard operating procedure, to pander to her mark’s narcissistic tendencies, which were far from short supply in an industry like Vinewood. Wasn’t this also why Michael was ultimately chosen for this operation?

 _You’re getting soft, Luna._ She was becoming the very thing she’d railed against all her life. A hopeless sap catering to mere sentiment. Ari had seen it when her mother was kept back from achieving even greater feats, at the decision of salvaging her parents’ marriage. In an ideal situation, her logical side would pull through and bring down the hammer and do what was necessary for her own goals, without remorse or care for anyone’s feelings. That’s what she’d also expected to happen when she had instructed Aiden to plant…. 

Before any tears welled and blurred her eyes, Ari punched Laura Young’s number in, glancing to and fro her laptop screen to confirm that she’d gotten each number correct. And then she checked again, digit by digit. And again.

Her thumb hovered over the green call button, about to tap it, when her phone came alive in her hands, jumping and blaring and rattling the insides of her skull.

Michael was calling her. She quickly accepted the call. “Hey, Michael, what’s up?” _We should stop having sex, Michael,_ she wanted to tell him, for the sake of her career, as if severing ties other than professional ones would soften the blow of the truth.

“Hey, Ari,” Michael’s voice rasped over the line, sending a shot of serotonin that soothed the ache in her head. “You know what I was thinking? I should book us the presidential suite at the Richman and then just camp in for days, no clothes allowed, and fuck on every piece of fancy furniture in there. We’ll have champagne for water. And then order up all the dirtiest porn titles and put them on Amanda’s credit card, which I realize I’m paying for anyway…. Anyway. What I’m saying is, I’m half-depressed, half-celebrating. I didn’t get the Impotent Rage deal, but fuck them, I’m working on a summer blockbuster with Laura Fucking Young….”

Ari wished she could say yes, she really did, but her meeting with Bernard still loomed in her thoughts.

Maybe she should tell him her job was in jeopardy, so he’d be willing to help. She quickly dismissed that thought. She could do this. On her own.

A very bad idea crossed Ari’s mind. What if, just what if, this was actually Laura Young that Michael was talking to? She had to come up with a way to suss out the Cardinal, and she had to make sure Michael was in the limelight.

“Can you get yourself more screen time on _Full Los Santos_?” Ari asked.

“Yeah, about that…. I had the same idea, actually. But Amanda wouldn’t put more of me on the show unless…my assistant got involved. So that idea’s dead….”

“I’ll fucking do it,” Ari said grimly.

“What?” Michael asked, surprised at her quick decision. “I mean…why?”

 _Because I need a fucking recourse, and I’m about to lose my job,_ Ari wanted to say, but instead she said, “We have to go for it. It’s what we signed up for.”

“If you only _knew_ why she wanted you on….”

Ari had a fair idea, recalling her not-so-friendly interaction with Amanda yesterday. She sighed. “What else do we have to lose?”

“Geez, I don’t know. Your soul? Your self-respect? I’m fine. I lost mine a long time ago. Ask Trevor.”

“That settles it, Mike.” The fact that she would rather do something this inane and irrational than have a simple phone call or chat emphasized exactly why Ari hated being…and feeling… _this_. “It’s showtime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Seriously. If none of this makes sense. Call me out. One day, I just might hand-wave away this entire reality show plot thread. 🙈
> 
> \- I know what I describe here is not exactly how producing and airing a reality show in Hollywood works, but let's assume this is how this fictional Vinewood reality show works for the sake of the story lol pls.
> 
> \- I made some very minor edits that maybe aren't so minor to the first scene of [chapter 13](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377016/chapters/62754871) to fit some of the themes used in this chapter and way back in chapter 2 (one of my personal faves, natch).
> 
> \- The mission is based on a real-life Hollywood con artist scam, on which there was recently a [podcast](https://open.spotify.com/show/1BEgKl5IbryV4SjASUhXTa) (where was THIS when I was writing my outline?).


	18. The Pleasure Principle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all may have noticed the songs mentioned in this fic are all before 2014, but I'll be damned if [this 2021 song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eM8LoBY3hIs) (and video and title) wasn't perfect for these two idiots. ([This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Xef2NPzGp0) is also a close runner-up.)

Michael had managed to score the presidential suite at the Richman Hotel, all right. It was very conveniently vacant for the night, a rare occurrence during the hundred-degree summers of Los Santos. It was the same season the glitterati would descend on the town for their summer blockbuster movie duties. If some hedonistic billionaire hadn’t snagged it for the week to escape from the dry heat, it was bound to be occupied by a pampered A-lister and their entourage, promoting their latest movie. Very soon, Michael thought, he would be staying in this suite again for that very purpose. But that wasn’t the case tonight.

Ari was here with him, just like he’d asked her. He wanted her—he was now wholly aware of the fact, but he wasn’t sure what to do with this newfound discovery. If there was one sure thing he knew about Ari, it was that every time he got too close, she would take several steps back. A gift of a guitar caused a tussle; a declaration of love would trigger a chasm.

Michael wondered if there was a ring of truth to her conviction that she’d killed her last asset because he’d gotten too close. He dismissed it as ludicrous.

There was also the issue of the ’til-death-do-us-part pact, why Michael had toyed with occasional fantasies of his own demise, a means to a final end to this marriage that had long lapsed into a nominal notion.

He went for the best way he knew how—hence this suite and this intended night of gluttony and debauchery. Ari did resist his invitation at first, over their phone call, but then she suddenly changed her mind.

He’d bought her a pearl necklace from Vangelico. He saw it in the store and he pointed, without asking the price, but he knew it cost a pretty penny. Ari would look good in pearls, he thought, and she would also appreciate the double entendre. “This better not be the only pearl necklace I get tonight,” he knew she’d say, and she did. He loved that Ari could have a dirty sense of humour too. Amanda had been once like that, when they were both younger. A part of him missed that. Amanda had changed; at least she did in his presence. Maybe she still acted that way with her newer boy toys.

There was a silver-plated room service trolley with chilled champagne and Beluga caviar pie. He wasn’t sure which of them had ordered it, but it was there, within arm’s reach. Huge chance it had been Ari, what, with her hoity-toity taste in food sometimes. Michael had ordered it once, shortly after settling into Rockford Hills, and he couldn’t understand the appeal. It was salty, slimy, and it had the same flavour profile as canned tuna water.

“What’s my code name?” he asked again. Her hesitation the first time had only made him more curious. Ari giggled as she looked around the room, her eyes settling on the trolley, where his gaze followed. “Wine. Your code name is Wine.” He felt contented that she’d responded, but a part of him knew she was still lying. He would get it out of her one day.

There was porn on the large plasma TV in the suite’s living area, like he’d promised, but neither one of them was paying attention to it. He took a quick glance and surmised Regan Porter was doing porn now; that’s who it was, even if Michael could barely recall what she actually looked like. Ari had once asked about her, he recalled. Michael was elated that he could give Ari closure over Regan Porter’s whereabouts. Ari would be relieved that Cris Formage’s wife was alive and well.

Ari didn’t even have to wait for them to get to the bedroom. She’d already started to blow him as he sat back on the suite’s luxurious sectional. Ari was always willing to go down on him, another thing he couldn’t say about Amanda for the longest time now. Even during the short-lived attempt at reconciliation with his wife after the whole Merryweather ordeal, he felt like Amanda only had sex with him (those few times) as a way of going through the motions. She lost interest again when he shot down her proposal to renovate the house. Perhaps at first it had been a way to retaliate—and then she fell into its convenience. Did he even really want to keep having sex with his wife anyway? It would be _something_ she could show up for, at the very least.

He trussed up the hair that had fallen down the sides and front of Ari’s face and bunched them in a fist that he held on the top of her scalp. He wanted to see all of her pretty face take in his cock, as he watched himself disappear and reemerge between her lips.

And now…Laura was with them in the room too, because of course she was. She had to be here for the threesome, he just knew it. It had been a long time since he had last seen Laura; he wasn’t sure what her face looked like anymore. But his mind told him that this was the one and only Laura Young in the same room.

“We better not tell my wife what we’re doing here,” Laura giggled as she sidled up next to Michael, who wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her close while Ari was still going to town on his cock with the use of her mouth and hands. 

“You have to choose, Michael,” Laura said. “Which one of us?”

“I was with him first.” Ari popped his dick out of her mouth just to whine.

“Ladies, ladies…. There’s no need to fight over me,” Michael chuckled. 

“It’s not cheating if it's more than one…it’s research,” Laura pointed out, and Michael winked at her. Damn, Laura Young just uttered of his own philosophies, verbatim.

“Tell me, Laura, since you’re a successful producer, what’s a guy like me gotta do to get to that level?” Michael asked her. 

Laura giggled again and answered, “Fake it ’til you make it.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by her answer. He wanted to hear some profound wisdom or secret weapon from an actual personality who lived and breathed Vinewood, but she told him nothing new. He felt he’d been doing it ever since he started working with Ari and Etienne, and to an extent, back when he began with Solomon Richards. 

He tried to brush it off as he remembered where he was at the moment, saying, “I think we can all be very happy together.” Michael was convinced of this. Ari now took her place on the sectional, on his right side. “I got the Impotent Rage deal,” he said, remembering that his situation had magically changed because Solomon had dropped dead.

“I always knew you would, tiger.” Ari slipped her fingers through a gap between his shirt buttons, undoing them to stroke his chest. “You can do no wrong.”

Laura leaned forward and caught Ari’s eye. “I think we should celebrate,” she said, and Ari immediately caught on, gripping Laura’s forearms to pull her close.

 _If this is what heaven is like, I should have died a long time ago._ Michael had two beautiful, accomplished women flanking him; their faces now closing in into one another, as his hungry gaze feasted on this magical event that was about to transpire….

“MICHAEL!”

He awoke with a jolt upon his wife’s shriek, and he found himself lying down on the couch in his living room, after having drifted off into a nap. His home theatre screen was now playing an Impotent Rage rerun. The movie he had been watching and had fallen asleep to— _Rum Runner_ for the thousandth time—was long over. He scrambled to look for the remote to turn the screen off.

“I was just getting to the best part,” Michael mumbled to himself. “Fuckin’ A.”

“MIC…. Oh, there you are.” Amanda walked into the living room. “You better get ready or you’ll miss our dinner reservation.”

“Reservation? Where?” Michael barked at her. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things?”

“Because. I know you’ll run off and be far away if I tell you,” Amanda said before she walked away, and Michael covered his face with a pillow to muffle a grunt because his wife knew him all too well.

“I don’t understand why you want to eat out here when it’s a Wednesday. It’s prime rib night at the country club,” Michael grumbled later that evening. “Prime rib night!”

“All that beef wreaks havoc on the colon,” Amanda huffed. “Besides, the problem with the country club is that it’s members-only.”

Michael blinked, not comprehending his wife’s point.

“Paparazzi!” Amanda said, lightly slapping him on the arm. “Like, they can’t get in!”

“It’s bottomless bucket of shrimp night here, dad.” Jimmy was trying to be helpful, if not opportunistic.

Amanda had dragged the family to the Les Bianco at Del Pierro Plaza, another detail Michael had complained about during the drive through Los Santos’s rush hour traffic. He’d given the argument that there were two perfectly serviceable Les Bianco branches within ten minutes of their house.

“This is the place Poppy Mitchell came out of when the paps got those pictures of her, before she checked into rehab,” Tracey offered. “This is definitely the place to be seen.”

“The ones with the shots up her crotch?” Jimmy said eagerly before he cleared his throat. “I mean…I _never_ saw those pictures….”

“So where are they? Where are the paps?” Michael tried to glance above his family’s heads towards the windows. “Why aren’t they snapping photos of us yet, huh?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re not going to take pictures of us while we’re _eating_. Those photos wouldn’t sell,” Amanda said.

Michael glanced up at one of the television screens atop the bar and spotted Nic Proulx and his lottery-winning genetics as a talking head on a business news channel. Michael felt a fire searing all over his body like this was one of those restaurants jumping on the latest Los Santos trend of open fire pit kitchens (it was not). It made no sense—he _knew_ where he and Ari stood, and Nic shouldn’t be a threat—but jealousy worked in mysterious ways. 

Tracey tried to follow his gaze. “Gee, dad, you seem to hate that guy as much as I hate masturbating monkeys.”

“Who doesn’t like masturbating monkeys?” Jimmy teased.

“I don’t want to hear about no masturbating monkeys, okay?” Michael interrupted. “We’re out and we’re all dressed nice. We might as well make this a nice family dinner, okay?”

“That’s all I’m asking from you, some cooperation! I’m glad you’re coming around,” Amanda said. “It’s just a shame you didn’t get that comic book thing you were working on. It seemed like a big deal; there were 500 comments in the _Vinewood_ blog post about it. Sounds like would have been great for us on the show.”

“That’s old news,” Michael interjected, “I got bigger things, like this international blockbuster with Laura Young.”

“Laura this, Laura that, you’ve been talking non-stop about this Laura character all week. Does Bianca know you’re double-dipping? Is this Laura person even real?”

“You’re going to be proud of me, okay? All of you.”

“Well, to be a Vinewood power couple, we actually both have to have some influence, you know” Amanda said wryly, “You better have a blockbuster out by the time we shoot season two.”

“Darling, the only influence you have is with your hair colour at the salon.”

“Why aren’t we leaving yet?” Michael whined well after they’d finished dinner and he’d paid the check.

“You know nothing about marketing, do you? I have to keep them waiting. Feed scraps, make them hungrier, make myself more of a precious commodity. Supply and demand. I don’t want to be _too_ easy,” Amanda said.

“22 years a bit too late for that,” Michael said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, fuck right off,” Amanda snapped.

Michael riling her ended up working in his benefit, since Amanda soon announced that they were leaving the restaurant.

“Etienne told me some of these E-list people actually _pay_ the paparazzi to stalk them to pretend there’s some sort of interest. You’re lucky I got a bit of cash on me,” Michael said as they exited the restaurant. He glanced around the building’s front. “So, where’s your adoring public now, huh?”

Now that Michael finally paid enough attention, he noticed that Amanda and Tracey were dressed to the nines and had make-up painted on so thick that Michael figured they fit right into a kabuki play. 

“Maybe we should head up towards the mall promenade,” Amanda said, with some unease in her voice as she glanced around.

He was about to retort that Amanda had made him go through all this trouble in vain, until a flash of strobe light stung his eyes and momentarily disoriented him. Michael’s initial instinct was to grab his wife and children and get them out of harm’s way. _Not again,_ he thought grimly. But as his mind gradually took stock of his surroundings, he felt at peace with convincing himself it wasn’t gunfire.

“The De Santas are coming out of Les Bianco!” a distant voice hollered.

The clatter of footsteps on pavement swelled at the same time a white light came hurtling towards them and illuminated Amanda, and Michael saw the exaggerated makeup wash away, leaving her with a dazzling glow.

His stomach churned at the quality he’d recognized from his prior work with Solomon, or even when he spotted celebrities coming in and out of the Epsilon Center near his home. Amanda had _it_. 

“Amanda! How do you do it? How are you such an angel while you’re married to this brute of a husband?” Lazlow Jones asked, microphone in one hand and a can of pepper spray aimed towards Michael’s direction in the other.

Amanda smiled in that incongruous way where her eyes didn’t budge, as she’d recently had Botox around that area. “We’ve had our ups and downs in our marriage, I’m not going to lie, Lazlow. But I know we still love and care for one another very deeply. But there are bigger things to talk about than my marriage, which…will be featured on _Full Los Santos_ next season.” She cleared her throat and looked directly into the Weazel News camera. “And I would like to take this opportunity to urge everyone watching…to please make your donations to the Angels Dreaming of Salvation Foundation. So we can keep our homeless people off the streets and into the yoga studios and tennis courts.”

Michael was skulking behind her, keeping out of the way of the news crew’s LED lighting, because he really did not want to be caught gagging and hurling on film.

Some curious onlookers—mostly tourists from out of town, because true locals wouldn’t bother—were rubbernecking around the commotion that Amanda and the paparazzi had caused and were viewing the scene through their phones, sometimes with the front-facing camera and with themselves in frame. They decided it was good enough for the Los Santos flex, and they called out for a pseudo-celebrity’s attention.

“Amanda! I love you, girl! So inspirational!”

“Tracey! You’re my queen!”

“What about me?” Jimmy called as the paparazzi and the fans focused their attention on his mother and sister. “I’m a budding entrepreneur! And I’m really not bad-looking in real life…the camera adds ten pounds!”

“Meet us in the car,” Michael hollered over the burst of clicks. He grabbed Jimmy by the sleeve, much to his son’s foul-mouthed protests, as he led them to the parking lot and away from the hubbub.

The phantom weight of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter lingered in his trouser pocket, and here was another instance he felt disappointment that he’d kicked the habit. More than the hit of tobacco and the fulfillment of release, however,, he wanted to stub his balls out with those lit cigarettes; might as well make the outside match how emasculated he was feeling.

“Fuck,” Michael snarled, slamming the hood of his Tailgater with a dull bang that echoed in the parking lot.

He couldn’t bear to witness it, and that was why he ran back to his car, to get away from the nightmare that was unraveling in front of him.

“Your mother set this up, didn’t she?” Michael asked Jimmy. This had to be the explanation for this fuss, what else? “They gotta be hired actors, right? Etienne…Etienne had something to do with this.…”

The blank look on his son’s face made Michael wish he had another ketamine-laced drink to put him out of his misery.

“They’re something of a big deal, dad,” Jimmy said, pinning down that trademark De Santa regard of smugness and sympathy. “Mom’s a trending topic on Bleeter whenever the show is aired.”

“Whatever the fucking fuck for?!” Michael howled.

“For the show!” Jimmy pointed out, and it was Michael’s turn to don a blank face, until it hit him a few moments later.

“So they’re famous for being famous. You gotta be shitting me.” Michael furiously paced aside his car, until he threw his key fob to Jimmy. “I’m going for a walk. You take the girls home. And keep my car in one piece!”

There was the Pacific Ocean calling him, and Michael ventured the few hundred yards westward toward the Del Perro boardwalk, where he found a quiet spot at the opposite side of the fairground, away from the bustle of people. The duality of the ocean fascinated him—you could float, or you could drown in its depths. What was essential for living also had the capability to kill. 

The water never failed to make him happy, and he could spend hours on end staring into the infinite horizon. This panorama was enough to convince him, or so he kept telling himself, that moving his family to Los Santos was all worth it. Michael had once thought this was his chance at freedom, a new life, when he made that deal with Dave Norton. He wasn’t sure how or when it had all unravelled, or why he had chosen to stay in spite of…everything. Cowardice? Convenience? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, after all. 

A whiff of the salty ocean air gave him the answer. Maybe he was due for a change, a huge one, since he moved to Los Santos. 

His family was going to hate it.

* * *

_No rest for the wicked,_ Ari often liked to tell herself. Never mind the mess she found herself in with Michael and his family; there was work to do. If this was going to be one of her final tasks as an IAA agent, in Los Santos, she might as well make the most of it.

Today, she was meeting a likely victim of the Cardinal, a British national now based in Los Santos, who had gotten in contact through an IAA tip line. Ari had instructed the woman to find her with the pink sunhat on a bench at the Galileo Observatory’s terrace overlooking the Arthur’s Pass Trails. This side with the mountain views was the less popular and crowded one, which was how Ari preferred it. A woman, who also appeared to be in her mid-thirties as Ari was, sat next to her on the bench.

“Imani?” Ari turned to the woman, who nodded. She took off her sunhat and sunglasses before she held out her hand. “Thank you so much for coming to meet me. I’m Ari Luna, IAA.”

Imani and Ari exchanged handshakes and other pleasantries before Imani started, “I felt so much shame that I didn’t want to admit for five whole years that I fell for something like this. How could I have been so stupid? I guess I really wanted to believe I was hot stuff, you know? I wanted to believe I could make it big in Vinewood, if I just got the right gigs, knew the right people.”

“You were a hair and makeup artist, am I correct?” Ari asked.

“Yeah, the black sheep of the family. My siblings…they were the arty ones. They didn’t believe I was doing real work, in the entertainment business. And I thought I could never match up to them. When my agent forwarded me the email from this…this Joanne Ling producer that she wanted me to be the head of makeup for this film…I thought, hell yeah, this is my ticket. To prove to my family that I was something.”

Ari hadn’t heard the name Joanne Ling before; either she was a producer overseas that Ari wasn’t familiar with, or the Cardinal also used fictional personas sometimes.

Imani went on, “This Joanne said she was working on this movie that was going to be huge…it was called _The Master_. I did want to see if it was legit, so I checked it out on VMDB…and there was a movie called _The Master_ that was in pre-production, and it had an A-list cast and a legitimate crew. …I mean, everyone knows, if it’s on VMDB, it’s gotta be real; members who can post are verified. Was good enough for me.

“And the money she’d offered was huge. That should have been a warning. It’s easier to spot the red flags now that I look back at it all. That it was too good to be true. I just thought at the time that I got lucky. This business, it’s all about word of mouth, knowing the right people. I really thought, ‘this is my chance’.” Imani paused and sighed, looking up at the sky to fight back tears. “But no, I was a fool.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Ari said softly. “I’ve seen their MO. I talked with a lot of people who were also duped by this con. She does a good job of convincing, manipulating people and taking advantage of how Vinewood operates.”

“I got all excited when they told me to go to Indonesia for meetings, after I’d signed a contract. I never been out of the country before, so I went for it.”

“And where did you go? Jakarta?” Ari asked. Maybe it was time for her to dig into this detail further. What was in Jakarta? Or perhaps, who?

“Yeah, Jakarta. Joanne asked me to send $5,000…so she could arrange my flight and hotel. She would reimburse me later, she promised.”

Ari did the mental math. Accounting for the actual flight and hotel costs, Joanne would be making at least $2,000 off this one transaction. A sizeable amount when converted to local currency. “Of course she did. And then what happened? When you arrived in Jakarta?”

What Imani told Ari next was a grim refrain of what Ari had heard from the other victims of the Cardinal that she had interviewed before. A local man, who spoke very little English, was assigned as the driver and guide. He would ask for a few hundred more dollars for extra expenses, with a promise for reimbursement, only for the victim never to see the money again. When the driver picked the victim up, supposedly en route to the meeting, the Cardinal would call and cancel the meeting at the last minute.

Imani went on, “Joanne had the driver take me to these odd places instead, saying I should use them for ‘inspiration’. He took me to a makeup exhibit, so it made sense a bit. And some giant shopping mall. Some weird, random tourist spots. There was this little history museum, which was nice. I got to chat with the front desk lady, who was pretty excited there was a foreigner who was interested in the local culture. They didn’t get a lot of foreigners, so they’d remember.

“And then…she asked me, ‘Are you with the film production?’ and at first, I got excited that the locals knew about it so I said I was going to be the head of makeup. And she said, ‘Oh, like that other girl who was here? She was head of makeup too,’ and my heart stopped. Something wasn’t adding up.

“I had travelled 10,000 miles…and I didn’t have a job like I thought? It was a competition? 

“But…two whole days of cancelled meetings. At this point, I was really pissed. Jet lag and the horrible traffic jams were not helping. I got fed up with the runarounds, you know? I was asking Joanne when she called, what’s going on? Why have I not seen anyone from the movie crew? Why have I not seen you in any of the two days that I was there? Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be here for? I told her this was totally unprofessional. And then she was telling me that I shouldn’t doubt her, that she still believed in me.

“I hung up and I was crying in the car with this driver, stuck in barely moving traffic for two hours. The sun was setting; it was nearly dark. ‘Take me back to the hotel,’ I told him. I was tired and fed up. Then he’s talking on the phone and I couldn’t understand any of it. And then he drove me through these slums while it was getting dark. It didn’t look like he was taking me back to my hotel. 

“I was a single woman, travelling alone, in an unfamiliar place where I didn’t speak the language. I was scared for my life. I thought I was getting abducted or I was going to be raped and killed or something. I was prepared to jump out the moving car. I was crying and shouting, ‘where are we?’”

Ari’s heart wrenched; she felt every ounce Imani’s fear through reliving the ordeal.

“And then Joanne called me again. She’d heard I was terrified and I was crying. She said she didn’t understand why. I said I didn’t think these meetings were ever happening and that I was alone in a strange city. She told me they still wanted me for the job. She was assuring me in a calm, gentle voice…yet authoritative. She had an answer for everything. She said she had to run out of town for some emergencies, that’s why she couldn’t meet me yet. ‘I’m going to be there tomorrow,’ she told me in a stern yet authoritative way.

“That was how Joanne was. Every time I spoke out my fear or had a question, she always had a firm, quick answer. She was smooth. She made you think that you were wrong or crazy to even question her.

“Turned out the driver detoured through the side streets to avoid the traffic jam, and he did take me back to the hotel that night. But that night was the last straw. I decided to go back home then and there.

“At the advice of a friend, I contacted the consulate, and it was a relief to hear from someone who was genuinely concerned for my safety. I told him about this business contact and that she booked the hotel on my behalf. Then the consulate guy told me that he couldn’t guarantee that nothing bad would happen to me, but I needed to get myself to the airport as soon as possible.

“He also told me to keep my luggage in sight, even while I was in the car to the airport, in case anyone tried to plant drugs on me.”

A possible drug trafficking ring? Ari’s head spun. That was an angle she had previously crossed out in the exploratory phase of her investigation but now had to reconsider. What she had dismissed as a silly scam was beginning to have some darker undertones.

Imani continued, “I was worried the hotel staff might be in on it…if Joanne had deliberately picked it for me. But the man at the consulate told me, ‘You need to warn everyone you come across that you are the victim of a scam.’” 

“How did you find your way to the airport?” Ari asked, somewhat sheepish that she was anticipating the rest of Imani’s story as if she was devouring a thrilling page-turner instead of investigating a case with her job on the line.

“I took a chance with the hotel manager. I did tell him I was scared for my life, and he was sympathetic. I said I didn’t want anyone else to know, not even him, when I was going to the airport. He offered to get me a car, a driver…he told me the car would be waiting, any time I wanted to leave that night. I didn’t have to tell him when.

“I took my luggage and ran to the car, not long after that. The airport was closed, and I had to wait the next morning for the counters to open. I did not get a lick of sleep. I kept looking over my shoulder, thinking they would find me somehow. After I checked in, I found this little coffeeshop in the airport and sat in a hidden corner, hoping no one spotted me there.

“And then…Joanne called me. Her driver had been to the hotel to pick me up for my meetings that day, but I was gone. I told her to find someone else for this job, for this movie, if it even existed in the first place. She assured me it was all real, that she still wanted me, and that she was going to do everything she can to make me happy. I was tired, I was broke, I just wanted to go home. I hung up on her.

“But then…she kept calling. There was her name on my phone. She was relentless. I wanted to shut off my phone, but I kept it on just in case…you know…I had to be tracked. I was terrified they’d still find me there, and god knows what else they’d do.”

Imani went on to recall how she and her agent called Joanne to ask for the reimbursement they’d been promised and that was stated in the contract, and how Joanne would smoothly assure them that she would talk to her finance department, but that money never materialized.

“And your agent had never come across other scammers before? Or since then?” Ari asked when Imani wrapped up her story.

“No…that was it. My agent can usually tell serious job offers, and a lot of those don’t actually have a person on the other end of the line. Nothing as elaborate as this Joanne, for damn sure.” Imani checked the time on her phone. “I have to get going, agent. I have a weekly meeting.”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Ari said, “I’m truly grateful for you coming here and reliving this…terrible ordeal.”

“I get by. These weekly meetings with Epsilon help me cope.” Imani sighed. “Maybe you’d like to join me today, sister sister? Better than therapy. I’d be more than happy to sponsor you.”

Ari chewed the inside of her mouth. “I would love to, but I have another appointment to run to,” she lied.

Now that she happened to be at the observatory, Ari couldn’t pass up the opportunity to head to the promenade walkway to witness the sun setting over Los Santos. Ari always had a soft spot for the Galileo Observatory; its commanding Greek revival and Beaux-Arts-influenced building always took her breath away, as she would peer at it up in the hills from the streets below. It was one of the first few places she visited when she landed in Los Santos, never mind that she was the only full-grown adult taking the guided tours on a day when buses full of school kids had taken over the planetarium and exhibits for a field trip. To her, this was the perfect spot to get a vantage point of the best the City of Saints had to offer, allowing views of the Pacific Ocean, downtown Los Santos, and of course, the Vinewood sign.

She was going to miss living in this city and having all of this at her fingertips.

Then, a crazy idea crossed her mind.

Even if she was going to be let go from the IAA, what if…she moved here? Even for a few months…maybe a year? A break would be nice; an actual, unburdened break that wasn’t a suspension She had no idea what she could do other than intelligence work, but she would find a solution; she knew she would.

Ari groaned out loud. She dismissed the thought and laughed by herself. What was she thinking? “Fuck, I’m soft, I’m getting soft.”

“You always were,” a male voice beside her spoke.

The audacity of a stranger taunting her, judging her, like that? On instinctive, uninhibited rage, Ari swung a fist, but her blow was quickly caught by Royce.

“Your left hook was never your forte,” Royce said in a monotone. “I could see it coming from a mile away.”

“Fuck you,” Ari sniped, pulling her hand away from his grip. “What are you doing here?”

“Last I checked, this is a public site. Also a favourite spot for feds and their secret rendezvous, apparently.”

“What a sorry coincidence. While you’re here, fuck you for trying to get my asset to leave my case.”

He shrugged. “Guess I was pissed. I don’t take rejection well.” 

What a pity that one of Ari’s favourite sanctuaries was now sullied by her encounter with Royce. After dealing with another human being for an extended time for her case, she just wanted to recharge and be alone. She shot an angry look at him before she walked away; the direction didn’t matter. The goal was to be far, far away from Royce or else she was going to push him over the barriers, and she didn’t want to defile the observatory grounds with his unholy corpse like that.

She’d gone all of five yards before Royce called, “Ari. Wait,” with a surprising gentleness she hadn’t heard since that night in Viendemorte.

She stopped and turned around as he jogged up to her, although she balled her right fist in case he was going to try and kiss her again.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened between us,” Royce said as he had caught up. “My ire has always been towards De Santa. Not you. Never you.” He held out his hand. “I’m not leaving theatre for three months, and I got time to spare. Say we let bygones be bygones, and I have to earn your forgiveness by helping you on your operation?”

Ari didn’t answer immediately. She stared at Royce’s outstretched arm, his face; and then she tilted her head back and peered at the heavens, looking around from side to side.

Royce was confused as he tried to follow her gaze up at the sky. “What? What are you looking for?”

Between the reality show and this handshake with Royce, Ari answered, with a dejected sigh, “Flying pigs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Dream sequence and yet another exposition dump. Did I jump the shark here?
> 
> \- Imani's recap is largely based on Chapter 2 of [this podcast](https://www.campsidemedia.com/shows/chameleon), which I'd mentioned in the previous chapter. :)
> 
> \- It's free content, you guys.


	19. Elegantly Wasted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Previously on _Light Sensitive_ :  
> * Michael made a decision, by the clarity of the ocean, one that he knows his family will hate. (ch. 18)  
> * Ari introduced herself as Michael's assistant Bianca to Trevor, who had none of it. (ch. 11...I'm just reminding you that Ari's cover name is Bianca!)  
> * Tall, blond, and blue-eyed Royce offered a truce and his assistance to Ari (ch. 18), which Ari will take him up on in this chapter.
> 
> \- **SPECIAL NOTE:** This chapter is presented in the correct-ish screenplay format through [this PDF](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1f-KNOUBHIe5sB9ecAL1j48LOa6fW56FA/view) (which I couldn't pull off here because of AO3's limited HTML and CSS formatting), but the full text is also provided below. ~~Better yet, don't read any of this.~~
> 
> Don't worry, we're going back to standard narration after this chapter. :)

MONTAGE - VARIOUS  
A.) INT. YOGA STUDIO - DAY - Amanda teaches yoga to homeless people.  
B.) EXT. TENNIS COURT - DAY - Amanda teaches yoga to a group of underprivileged children.  
C.) INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT - Amanda enjoys a family dinner with Tracey and Jimmy.

AMANDA (V.O.)  
I’ve been extremely blessed to be doing what I love and sharing it with my less fortunate sisters and brothers.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
I have everything a woman would possibly want, right? Decent-looking kids, influential movie producer husband....

EXT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - DAY

Amanda practices yoga by the pool. Michael emerges from inside the house.

MICHAEL  
Darling, I’ve finally decided. It’s something I should have done a long, long time ago.

Amanda’s vinyasa flow is interrupted. She gracefully alights from her downward-facing dog and turns to her husband.

MICHAEL  
I’m selling the house.

Tracey seems to teleport onto the patio, as if from out of nowhere. Her eyes are as wide as dinner plates.

TRACEY  
Dad, you can’t be serious.

Tracey falls to her knees, cushioned by the yoga mat, as she weeps melodramatically.

CONFESSIONAL

TRACEY  
Everyone in Vinewood knows what “selling the house” means. The tabloids knew what was up when Samantha Muldoon and Kirk Simplex put their Vinewood Hills place up for sale even before they got married. 

EXT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - DAY

Michael looks around at Amanda and Tracey, who have just finished saying their piece.

MICHAEL  
(incredulously)  
Divorce?

AMANDA  
(angrily)  
I can’t believe you! You’re going to leave me for some dumb young tart, aren’t you?

MICHAEL  
(flummoxed)  
What are you talking about? I ain’t talking about a divorce. I just want a change of scenery, is all. For all of us.

AMANDA  
How could you be so selfish?

MICHAEL  
(incredulously)  
Me? Selfish? Hello! How could you still want to live here after you and your daughter nearly got your heads blown off in this very house! I ain’t no interior designer, but I don’t think blood red is a flattering color for our walls.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
(voice cracking)  
On the night of my first movie premiere, armed men attacked Tracey and me in our home.

INT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - NIGHT - FLASHBACK

Amanda struggles to escape from a captor holding a gun to her head, as Michael storms in through the front door. Michael aims his gun.

MICHAEL  
Choose your next words wisely, pal, because they’ll be your last.

A GUNSHOT

FADE TO WHITE

EXT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - DAY - BACK TO PRESENT

JIMMY (O.C.)  
I’m the one who totally saved your rear ends that night.

AMANDA  
It’s not just your decision to make! How could you go through this without me? I’m your wife!

MICHAEL  
Was I in on the decision-making when you rented the house out for a porno? I had to replace all the furniture!

JIMMY (O.C.)  
I’ve never seen that porno. I swear!

MICHAEL  
I wanna get us a place by the ocean. We can have our own private view of the sunset, you know, as often as we’d like.

AMANDA  
By the ocean? Is it going to have a tennis court?

MICHAEL  
(hesitates)  
That’s a little out of my budget.

AMANDA  
So, you expect me to play tennis at the country club? Like a commoner?

TRACEY  
What if we like it here? I like it here? It’s Portola Drive! Come on, dad, can’t you at least give it a day? A week? Never?

Michael looks over at Tracey, and his gaze softens.

CONFESSIONAL

MICHAEL  
I don’t know what’s coming into me. Is...is this how ordinary people have a mid-life crisis?

Michael buries his face in his hands and sighs.

EXT. PARK - DAY

Michael walks up to an alluring young woman, his assistant Bianca, who was waiting for him by a tree. They embrace passionately--she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her face to his chest

While jogging, Alexandra spots them from a distance and quickly whips out her phone and dials, while she hides behind a shrub while keeping Michael and Bianca within eyeshot.

ALEXANDRA  
(suppressing a smile)  
Amanda, how’s it going?

INT. YOGA STUDIO - SAME TIME

Amanda smiles as she ends a class full of senior citizens with a “namaste”. She attends to her phone, and her face turns sour as she reads the caller ID. She forces a smile as she answers.

AMANDA  
(in a saccharine manner)  
Alexandra, my dear friend, how are you?

INTERCUT - PHONE CONVERSATION

ALEXANDRA  
I’m jogging at the park with Bruce and the kids.... And I see your husband is here. Getting a little too friendly with a girl.

AMANDA  
Exotic-looking?

ALEXANDRA  
Sure is.

AMANDA  
(snorts)  
That’s his assistant all right.

MONTAGE - VARIOUS  
A.) INT. CAR - MOVING - NIGHT - Michael drives down Vinewood Boulevard, approaching Doppler Cinema.  
B.) EXT. THEATER - NIGHT - Michael and Amanda pose on the red carpet for a movie premiere.  
C.) EXT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - DAY - Michael and Bianca have an animated conversation while poring through scripts by the pool.  
D.) EXT. PARK - DAY - Michael and Bianca embrace one another while chatting and laughing.

AMANDA (V.O.)  
When my dearest friend, A-list actress and philanthropist, Alexandra Saint-Jacques called me to say she saw my husband at the park with his assistant...it all made sense.

EXT. TENNIS COURT - DAY

Michael and Amanda play tennis on their private court. Amanda serves.

AMANDA  
I know about you and your assistant.

MICHAEL  
What are you getting at? She’s just my assistant.

Michael returns.

AMANDA  
Alex said she saw you and...a young exotic girl at the park. Hugging.

Amanda hits a down-the-line shot away from Michael’s reach.

AMANDA  
Isn’t that your assistant? Bianca, wasn’t it?

MICHAEL  
Aw. It was just a friendly hug!

Amanda serves again and hits a powerful ace, aimed right at his balls. Michael drops his racket and shields his crotch with his hands as he barely avoids the missile.

MICHAEL  
Whoa! Okay! Okay! We...kinda have...a thing.

Amanda serves another violent ace, and this time, it hits Michael on the side of his torso, causing him to groan in pain, collapse, and writhe on the ground.

AMANDA  
(yelling, staring him down)  
Forty-love, you son of a bitch!

Michael is still lying on the ground, albeit melodramatically, tending to his bruised hip and ego.

MICHAEL  
Why do I take the hit? I know there were some after-class strokes going on between you and your tennis coach!

Amanda crosses the court, walking over the net, still wielding her racket in her hand. Michael quickly gets to his feet and takes a semi-defensive stance. Instead, Amanda sighs and drops the racket at their feet.

AMANDA  
You know what, my chakras are all balanced. I’m not angry anymore. No. I’m beyond that. I’ve ascended to a higher plane.

Michael stares at her, bewildered.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
All this good that I’m doing for the community! What kind of a person am I if I didn’t practice my own teachings of serenity and calmness with my own husband!

INT. DE SANTA RESIDENCE - DAY

Michael is reading a newspaper at the dining table, and Amanda joins him after making a green smoothie.

AMANDA  
Darling, I want to get to know this...assistant of yours better. Maybe I dismissed her too rashly. Wifely instinct, after all.

Michael lowers the newspaper and gazes over the top suspiciously.

AMANDA  
(sweetly)  
We should go on a double date! Let her bring her boyfriend. Or a girlfriend? Is that how she swings? Is that why you like her?

MICHAEL  
She doesn’t have a b--  
(suddenly falls silent)

AMANDA  
(studies Michael with interest)  
Oh? Oh, she does, and you’re jealous, aren’t you?

MICHAEL  
(irritatedly)  
I am not!

AMANDA  
(shouting)  
Then let’s all go on a double date!

MICHAEL  
(also shouting)  
Yes! That sounds splendid! We’ll all have a jolly good time!

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Bianca approaches the hostess’s desk with her tall, blond, and blue-eyed date, Regis, who is squeezing her into his hip perhaps a little way too enthusiastically.

BIANCA  
(through a fake smile and gritted teeth)  
Reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Michael De Santa.

Bianca and Regis are escorted to the table where Michael and Amanda are already seated. Amanda and Bianca double-kiss with plastic sincerity. After shaking hands, Michael shoots nothing but dagger eyes at Regis.

AMANDA  
(eyeing Regis approvingly)  
Oh my, you certainly snagged a stunner here! Are you an actor, Regis?

Michael rolls his eyes. Hard. Bianca stifles a snort and hides behind her water goblet.

REGIS  
(laughing)  
Oh, no. I’m also an assistant at your husband’s studio. He sure makes Bianca and me work for hours on end. That’s how we got to bond.

Regis takes Bianca’s hand and squeezes it above the table, while Bianca tries hard to show she is enjoying it.

AMANDA  
Two assistants? You must really be so busy with your new company!

MICHAEL  
(forcing a smile)  
What can I say? I’m living the dream.

AMANDA  
(laughing, putting an arm around Michael)  
Look at us, the new power couple of Vinewood. A toast.

Champagne flows freely for the table; glasses clink all around. Amanda takes a big gulp before a waiter refills her flute, and she places an elbow on the table, hand cupping her chin, as she looks directly at Bianca.

AMANDA  
So. Bi-Aaaannnn-Ca. What’s your story?

BIANCA  
Came to Los Santos by way of New Hanover. I was a yoga instructor for a while, but I dream of being a screenwriter. This job as a producer’s assistant is a good first step.

AMANDA  
Yoga! Well, I’ve been under the tutelage of the great Fabien LaRouche....

MICHAEL  
Darling, you were under Fabien in more ways than that. And many, many times. Usually doggy style.

AMANDA  
(ignoring him, grinning at Bianca and sipping champagne)  
You do remind me a lot of me. I mean, back when my arms were thicker and my boobs were smaller. I can see why my husband is fond of you.

An awkward silence falls upon the table, as the other three guests tend to their drinks. The rest of the dinner goes on, with Michael able to defuse the tension with his trademark charm. Bianca, now emboldened by the alcohol and the camera crew, becomes touchy-feely towards her boss. Amanda notices and silently observes and glowers.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
Now, I know my marriage isn’t perfect. Maybe I’ve strayed...a few times. People have affairs. It matters how you handle yourself and if you’re actually remorseful. I’ve never found Bianca to be remorseful. Well, I’ve decided to be the better person in this situation.

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Back at the double-date, as dinner comes to a close, Regis showers Amanda with attention while Michael and Bianca continue with their flirtation.

AMANDA  
Well, hasn’t this been fun? We oughta take this party on the road. How about karaoke?

REGIS  
That sounds great. Bianca’s an excellent sing--

Regis yelps and doesn’t finish his sentence as Bianca pinches his arm under the table.

BIANCA  
Oh, no, I’m rather tired. I’d like to call it a ni--

REGIS  
(interrupts, also somewhat inebriated)  
I’ve gone on many a karaoke session with you and our friends, and you would NEVER pass up an invitation.

Bianca shoots dagger eyes at him.

AMANDA  
(sweetly)  
That settles it! Karaoke it is!

INT. KARAOKE BAR - NIGHT

As they enter the bar, several patrons recognize Amanda and turn their cell phones to her, some asking for selfies. Michael gets restless by the attention his wife is getting, and Bianca steers him away from the small crowd and to a table. 

MICHAEL  
(sullenly)  
She’s got an audience. She’s made it. I haven’t. I (bleep) hate it.

Bianca looks over at Amanda’s little adoring posse, and then sympathetically back at Michael. She pulls him into an embrace and strokes the back of his head, which rests on her shoulder.

MICHAEL  
I got so much riding on this movie with Laura Young. She wants me in Indonesia right away.

Bianca quickly pulls away from Michael and gapes at him. She is about to speak, but is stopped from doing so when Amanda and Regis arrive at the table. Bianca worries how much intimacy the new arrivals actually saw, but she looks longingly at the stage, where a group of bros were wrapping up a charismatic but out-of-tune “Livin’ on a Prayer” that was lifted by the crowd. She catches Regis’s eye.

REGIS  
(points at Bianca’s cheek)  
Look at you. Look at that smile.

Bianca is still uninhibited by the alcohol by this point, and she mirrors Regis’s growing smile and laughs, shoving his pointed finger away, and they playfully wrestle for a few seconds. Michael witnesses all of this, and he turns away, only to glance right as his wife, who snickers at him.

Amanda takes the mic for an “I Love Rock and Roll” that’s a concerted mix of glam punk Joan Jett and sex kitten Britney. She sings in tune, but that’s beside the point. She is an entertainer, after all, and she knows how to work a stage. If the patrons’ attention had been scattered before her performance, she commands the all of it with her stage presence. She bows and waves to a room full of applause and cheers. Even her own table is impressed. Mostly.

REGIS  
There is no way you can top that. She’s got the crowd.

BIANCA  
She was just my opening act.

Regis pulls Bianca up from her seat and maneuvers her towards the stage, taking the mic from Amanda, who is still basking in the limelight. The opening bass line of Bianca’s song is unmistakable.

BIANCA  
(singing)  
Hey sister, go sister, soul sister....

What Bianca cannot emulate with Amanda’s consummate dancing, she makes up with her vocal prowess, as she lets rip through “Lady Marmalade” to the amazement of the crowd. If possible, her cheers and applause are louder, and she manages a few standing O’s.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
(scowling)  
...

INT. KARAOKE BAR - NIGHT

Bianca and Michael are on stage, performing “You’re the Inspiration” with Bianca taking on the Peter Cetera lead vocal lines and Michael doing his damnedest with the backing vocals, making her laugh and clutch his free hand to encourage him. The audience cheers and whistles.

Regis clinks his beer bottle with Amanda’s martini glass, while she glares at her husband and his assistant.

AMANDA  
(leans into Regis while her eyes stay on the stage)  
They’re totally (bleep), you know.

REGIS  
(deadpanning)  
What gave it away?

Amanda gestures towards the stage. Bianca cups Michael’s face with a dramatic flourish.

BIANCA  
(singing)  
No one needs you more than I need you.

REGIS  
(still deadpan, turns to Amanda)  
I say you have a compelling case.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
You know what? (Bleep) being the better person. I. Hate. That. Bitch.

INT. KARAOKE BAR - NIGHT

As the club’s patrons applaud, Amanda climbs up the stage and charges towards Bianca, who is uncharacteristically caught unawares, pushing Bianca away from Michael. Amanda pulls at Bianca’s hair, and Bianca shrieks, but does little to stave away Amanda. The crowd gasps, but Michael immediately pulls Amanda away.

MICHAEL  
(shouting, to Amanda)  
That’s enough! I’m in love with her, okay?

Bianca looks perturbed onstage, but it’s not clear whether it’s from Amanda’s assault or Michael’s statement. Or both. As the club’s security gets up on the stage to escort them away, Regis rushes onto the stage to try to defuse the situation and assure they were all leaving the club right away. Regis wraps his arm around the back of Bianca’s shoulders as they make a brisk exit.

CONFESSIONAL

AMANDA  
(crying)  
I need to save my marriage. I must fight to save my family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Possible continuity error: I know Ari revealed her real name to Jimmy back in chapter 8, but in my mind, Jimmy is dense (or in denial) enough that he can't keep track of his dad's girlfriends, and he's the type to be face-blind with other races. =P
> 
> \- The inspiration for Ari's singing voice comes from [this guy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLjDmz1PATc), who has one of my all-time favorite singing voices...but he is a [tech executive by profession](https://www.google.com/search?q=nathan+hubbard).
> 
> \- Don't be afraid to Show Entire Work and Ctrl/Cmd + F for clues.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my love letter to Michael, to dad music, and to Los Angeles (and songs and movies and video games about L.A.). If you made it this far, thank you for reading! I swear I will be completing this story, however long it takes, so I hope you'll stick around.
> 
> I also keep a [YouTube playlist of all the dad music](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLuPZ0zPmW8IAt6ydPfr2exw-LTqjRJ90y) mentioned here, and sometimes, there's a sneak peek at the next chapter titles. ;)


End file.
